It was smaller, but similar in arrangement to the room where she had passed the night. A candle was sputtering in its socket, and the cold, misty, white dawn stared in at the eastern window upon rows of cots and unquiet, muttering sleepers. There, in the centre of the room, with her head bowed on the table, sat, or rather leaned, Electra, slumbering soundly, with her scarlet shawl gathered about her shoulders—her watch grasped in one hand, and the other holding a volume open at "Hesperid-Æglé."
Irene lifted the black curls that partially veiled the flushed neck, and whispered—
"Electra, wake up! I am going home."
"Is it light yet, out of doors? Ah, yes—I see! I have been asleep exactly fifteen minutes—gave the last dose of medicine at four o'clock. How is the boy? I am almost afraid to ask."
"Dead. Willie lived till daylight."
"Oh! how sad! how discouraging! I went to your door twice and looked in, but once you were praying, and the last time you had your face down on Willie's pillow, and as I could do nothing, I came back. Dr. Whitmore told me he would die, and it only made me suffer to look at what I could not relieve. I am thankful my cases are all doing well; that new prescription has acted magically on Mr. Hadley yonder, who has pneumonia. Just feel his skin—soft and pleasant as a child's."
"I have some directions to leave with Martha, about giving quinine before the doctor comes down, and then I shall go home. Are you ready?"
"Yes. I have a singular feeling about my temples, and an oppression when I talk—shouldn't wonder if I have caught cold."
"Electra, did you see Harvey last night?"
"No. Where did he come from?"