On the morning of which we speak, Reuben Oak had a blunt perception of the fact that it was kind in his wife to take such pains not to wake him till he got ready to begin the tremendous day before him; she always was considerate if he did not sleep well. He put down his hand and took hers with a sudden grasp, where it lay gentle and still beside him.
"Well, Peter," he said, kindly.
"Yes, dear," said Patience, instantly. "Feeling all right for to-day?"
"Fine," returned Reuben. "I don't know when I've felt so spry. I'll get right up 'n' dress."
"Would you mind staying where you are till I get your coffee heated?" asked Patience, eagerly. "You know how much stronger you always are if you wait for it. I'll have it on the heater in no time."
"I can't wait for coffee to-day," flashed Reuben. "I'm the best judge of what I need."
"Very well," said Patience, in a disappointed tone. For she had learned the final lesson of married life—not to oppose an obstinate man, for his own good. But she slipped into her wrapper and made the coffee, nevertheless. When she came back with it, Reuben was lying on the bed in his flannels, with a comforter over him; he looked pale, and held out his hand impatiently for the coffee.
His feverish eyes healed as he watched her moving about the room. He thought how young and pretty her neck was when she splashed the water on it.
"Goin' to wear your black dress?" he asked. "That's right. I'm glad you are. I'll get up pretty soon."
"I'll bring you all your clothes," she said. "Don't you get a mite tired. I'll move up everything for you. Your uniform's all cleaned and pressed. Don't you do a thing!"