One was the
same sweet face that looked out at him from each of the photographs, the
other was his father's. It showed a handsome young fellow with strong,
clean-shaven face, with eyes like Keith's, and the same lordly poise of
the fine head that Malcolm had.
"Good night, papa, good night, mamma!" whispered Keith, touching his
lips hastily to each picture while Malcolm's back was turned. There were
tears in his eyes. Somehow he was so miserably homesick.
Next morning, although Keith's throat was not so sore, he was burning
with fever by the time his lessons were over. Before his grandmother saw
him he was off on his wheel for a long ride, and then, because he was so
hot when he came back, he slipped away to the pond with the pink
bathing-suit under his coat, and took the swim that he had been looking
forward to so long. Nobody knew where he was, and he stayed in the water
until his lips and finger-nails were blue. The morning after that he was
too ill to get up, and Mrs. Maclntyre sent for a doctor.
"He has always been so perfectly well, and seemed to have such a strong
constitution, that I cannot allow myself to believe this will be
anything serious," said Mrs. Maclntyre, but at the end of the third day
he was so much worse that she sent to the city for a trained nurse, and
telegraphed for his father and mother.
They had already left Florida, and were yachting up the Atlantic coast
on their way home when the message reached them.
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