"Dreams, dreams," he murmured wanly.
An unaccountable tear-drop slipped from Olga Fullerton's eye and rolled softly down her cheek. She placed her cold, soft hand upon his fever-scorched forehead. Then slowly he opened his eyes again, which shown with a glorious light of hope.
"Tell me," he said weakly, longingly, "is it true?"
"Yes," she replied in a voice which she endeavored to keep firm, "it is true."
As she spoke she leaned down and touched her cold lips to his burning cheek.
After that almost every day Olga spent several hours by Coningsby's bedside, hours which he declared were made up of the most happy, glorious moments of his life. One day he said to Jerold Wharton:
"Jerry, I am making up for the wasted years, the years which contained no love. And do you know somehow when a person doesn't love he is missing one of the really greatest things of life. Old man, take my advice and settle down."
As Coningsby spoke, Jerold Wharton had walked to the window, a terrible hunger gnawing at his heart. Yes, he needed love, the love of Olga Fullerton. Outside a sluggish, misty rain was falling. Everything looked dark and gloomy and the walks were paved with soggy mud. He smiled whimsically as he gazed out upon the dreary scene. All Nature, to him, seemed to accord with his mood. Presently he turned again to his friend, and now the look of sorrow had passed from his face.
