"No," he said, briefly.
"It really isn't necessary," said Margaret.
"I prefer to stay."
She did not combat it. In her heart she was glad to have him there.
Through the long hours they sat thus, one on each side of Philip's bed. The nurse watching them could not but think how strange it all was.
Midnight and the doctor brought them hope.
"He is doing finely, nurse,—I couldn't ask anything better." Then to Margaret, who stood beside him, he said feelingly, ignoring Mr. De Jarnette, "God is more merciful than man, my child. He has given you back your—why, my dear!"—for Margaret was clinging to him weak and nerveless, her head on his fatherly shoulder—"there! there!—here, nurse, look after her. She is all unstrung."
"It is sleep she needs," the nurse said, "and no wonder." And Margaret allowed herself to be led away.
"It beats everything the way these women do," grumbled the doctor. "You think they are wrought-iron till the danger is past, and then you find they are a bundle of nerves after all. I stumbled over that old negro woman of yours at the door—waiting for news, I suppose."
Mr. De Jarnette went to the door.