She listened. The faint cry rose again and again. She could not endure it, and she got out of bed, put on her dressing gown, and slipped down the stairs. She could hear the voice more plainly now, and the cry was still, "Water! water!"
She opened the door, and, pausing a moment, her face crimson, stole toward the bed. Molly was in her chair, with her head lolling over the back, as if it were a guillotine, her huge mouth wide open, fast asleep.
Nell stood and looked down at the unconscious man. The dark-brown hair was tangled, the white face drawn with pain, the lips dry with fever, one hand, clenched, opening and shutting spasmodically, on the counterpane.
That divine pity which only a woman can feel filled and overran her heart. She poured some water into a glass and set it to his lips. He could not drink lying down, and, with difficulty, she raised his head on her bosom. He drank long and greedily; then, as she slowly—dare one write "reluctantly"?—lowered his head to the pillow, he muttered:
"Thanks, thanks, Luce! That was good!"
CHAPTER III.
"Luce!"
It was a strange name—the name of a woman, of course. Nell wondered whether it was his sister—or sweetheart? Perhaps it was his wife?
She waited for some minutes; then she woke Molly, and returned to her own room.