And Father Damon, lying weary in his bed, before he fell asleep, saw the faces in the dim chapel turned to him in strained eagerness the moment before he lost consciousness; but the most vivid image was that of a woman bending over him, with eyes of tenderness and pity, and the smile with which she greeted his awakening. He could feel yet her hand upon his brow.
When Dr. Leigh called next day, on her morning rounds, she found a brother of the celibate order, Father Monies, in charge. He was sitting by the window reading, and when the doctor came up the steps he told her in a low voice to enter without knocking. Father Damon was better, much better; but he had advised him not to leave his bed, and the patient had been dozing all the morning. The doctor asked if he had eaten anything, and how much. The apartment was small and scantily furnished—a sort of anchorite cell. Through the drawn doors of the next room the bed was in sight. As they were talking in low voices there came from this room a cheerful:
“Good-morning, doctor.”
“I hope you ate a good breakfast,” she said, as she arose and went to his bedside.
“I suppose you mean better than usual,” he replied, with a faint attempt at a smile. “No doubt you and Father Monies are satisfied, now you've got me laid up.”
“That depends upon your intentions.”
“Oh, I intend to get up tomorrow.”
“If you do, without other change in your intentions, I am going to report you to the Organized Charity as a person who has no visible means of support.”
She had brought a bunch of violets, and as they talked she had filled a glass with water and put them on a stand by the head of the bed. Then—oh, quite professionally—she smoothed out his pillows and straightened the bedclothes, and, talking all the time, and as if quite unconscious of what she was doing, moved about the room, putting things to rights, and saying, in answer to his protest, that perhaps she should lose her reputation as a physician in his eyes by appearing to be a professional nurse.
There was a timid knock at the door, and a forlorn little figure, clad in a rumpled calico, with an old shawl over her head, half concealing an eager and pretty face, stood in the doorway, and hesitatingly came in.