He pointed to the table at his elbow.
“My pipe, please; and then if you wouldn’t mind reading aloud for a time.”
Nancy did mind acutely; but she took up the book with an outward showing of indifference, while Barth composed himself to smoke and doze at his pleasure.
For a long hour, Nancy read on and on. Now and then she glanced out at the sunshiny lawn beneath the window; now and then she looked up at her patient, wondering if he would never bid her cease. In spite of her rebellion at her captivity, however, she was forced to admit that Barth had his redeeming traits. His faults were of race and training; his virtues were his own and wholly likable. Moreover, in all essential points, he was a gentleman to the very core of his soul and the marrow of his bones.
“‘Still of more moment than all these cures, are the graces which God has given, and continues to give every day, through the intercession of good Sainte Anne, to many a sinner for conversion to better life.’” Nancy’s quiet contralto voice died away, and M. Morel’s old story dropped from her hands. Barth’s eyes were closed, and she decided that he had dropped to sleep; but his voice showed her mistake.
“It’s a queer old story. Do you believe it all, nurse?”
A sudden spice of mischief came into Nancy’s tone.
“Yes, and no. I doubt the epilepsy and paralysis; it remains to be seen about the conversions to a better life.”
“I suppose one could tell by following up the cases,” Barth said thoughtfully.
“Certainly.” Nancy’s accent was incisive. “I accept nothing on trust.”