Mary Margaret was strangely wakeful, and as her child sunk off to rest, she left her bed again and stole down the ward to see if her charge slept. Then the nurse arose and came boldly forward. A strange, wheedling smile hung around her lips, and there was something in her look that made Mary Margaret shudder.
“It’s very kind of you, I’m sure, Mrs. Dillon, to be taking all this trouble for me, that isn’t fit for duty to-night no more than your baby there. I’m very grateful that you will have an eye to this poor thing, for my sick headache just uses me up, and the doctor is very particular about her medicine. If you’d only take charge now while I catch a little nap, it would be a charity to more than one; but do be particular about the medicine.”
Mary Margaret was seized with an unaccountable shudder, but she answered quite naturally, “Sure and I’ll do me best, marm.”
“That’s a good soul; don’t forget the medicine, the directions are all on the bottles, and—and——”
The voice was husky and unnatural, and all around her mouth settled a strange pallor, as if the sickness of which she complained had seized with new force upon her.
“I’ll do my best,” repeated Mary Margaret, and she sat down upon the foot of the poor young creature’s bed like one who had resolved to guard it well.
The nurse went half-way to her chair in the corner, and turned back with her face from the light.
“In fifteen minutes it will be time to give her first dose,” she said, still huskily, and with an effort; “a teaspoonful, don’t forget.”
“I’ll not forget, will I, me purty darlint?” answered Mary Margaret, folding the two pale hands of the invalid between her palms, and gazing upon her with kindly mournfulness.
The nurse stumbled back to her corner as if worn out with her headache, and sat brooding there, sometimes with her eyes closed, sometimes with that basilisk glance peering out from above her folded arms. She reminded you of a rattlesnake watching amid its own coils.