"Not that I put a great deal of credence in it," admitted the Doctor. "But if you say it was a sound—a signal that she had been waiting for——"
Softly Allan John fluted the silver note.
A little shiver—a struggle, passed across the figure on the bed.
"Again!" prompted the Doctor.
Once more Allan John lifted the whistle to his lips.
The May Girl opened her eyes and struggled vainly to raise herself on her elbow. When she saw Allan John a vague sort of astonishment flushed across her face and an odd apologetic little laugh slipped weakly from her lips.
"I—I came just as soon as I could, Allan John," she said, and sinking back into her pillows began quite unexpectedly to cry. It was the Doctor himself who sat by her side and wiped her tears away.
Ann Woltor shared the watches with me through the rest of the night. Allan John never left the room. Towards dawn I sent even Ann Woltor to her sleep and Allan John and I met the new day alone. By the time it was really light the May Girl, weak as she was, seemed to have recovered a certain amount of talkativeness. Recognizing thoroughly the presence and activity of both my hands and my feet, she seemed to ignore entirely the existence of either my eyes or my ears. Her puzzled wonderments were directed at Allan John alone.
"Allan John—Allan John," I heard her call softly.
"Yes," said Allan John.