So much so indeed that all felt hope.
Jim slept at intervals, but continually muttered and flung himself about.
There were flashes of consciousness, when he would look fixedly at those around his bed, and smile in his winning way.

He thanked them for their kindness, and hoped he would get well; but he had never felt so strange.
It seemed as if his head was continually lifting his body upward, and he was so light he could fly.
After lying this way for some minutes, his hand, which rested in that of Tom's, would suddenly tighten with incredible strength, and he would rise in bed and begin a wild, incoherent rambling, which filled the hearts of the others with anguish.
It was just growing dusk, when Jim, who had exchanged a few words of sense with his weeping friend, said, lying motionless on his pillow, and without apparent excitement,-- "Tom, I'm dying." "O Jim! don't say that," sobbed the broken-hearted lad.

"You must get well.

You are young and strong; you must throw off this sickness: keep up a good heart." The poor boy shook his head.
"It's no use.

I wish I had been a better boy; but I've said my prayers night and morning, and tried to do as mother and father used to tell me to do.