burning with fever. He is dressed in corduroy pants, a flannel shirt, and wears worn carpet slippers on his bare feet.
Ruth—[Dully.] S-s-s-h-h! Ma’s asleep.
Robert—[Speaking with an effort.] I won’t wake her. [He walks weakly to a rocker by the side of the table and sinks down in it exhausted.]
Ruth—[Staring at the stove.] You better come near the fire where it’s warm.
Robert—No. I’m burning up now.
Ruth—That’s the fever. You know the doctor told you not to get up and move round.
Robert—[Irritably.] That old fossil! He doesn’t know anything. Go to bed and stay there—that’s his only prescription.
Ruth—[Indifferently.] How are you feeling now?
Robert—[Buoyantly.] Better! Much better than I’ve felt in ages. Really I’m quite healthy now—only very weak. It’s the turning point, I guess. From now on I’ll pick up so quick I’ll surprise you—and no thanks to that old fool of a country quack, either.
Ruth—He’s always tended to us.
Robert—Always helped us to die, you mean! He “tended” to Pa and Ma and—(his voice breaks)—and to—Mary.
Ruth—[Dully.] He did the best he knew, I s’pose.
