“I know—I know, Albert. But do not let us talk of such exciting things. Your fever is rising, and—here comes Erminie.”
Miss Rosenthal had not passed down her side of the ward as quickly as Elfie had passed down hers. Erminie’s walk was more like that of a physician in charge. She was familiar there. She had to stop by the side of every bed, and hold a conversation with the patient or a consultation with the nurse. And so her progress was slow.
Now, however, having got to the end of her row of beds, she approached her friend, and saw the new patient.
“Albert Goldsborough! is it possible!” she exclaimed, in surprise—surprise immediately suppressed by her habitual caution as a hospital visitor.
“Yes, Miss Rosenthal, I am here,” he answered.
“I am very, very sorry to see you lying thus,” said Erminie, taking his hand, and laying her finger upon his pulse. “You are feverish, and must not give me a word of explanation yet. Elfie, my dear, your presence is no sedative just now,” she added, turning to the weeping girl; “so you may go down. Inquire your way to the office of the surgeon in charge, and ask him, in my name, to send one of his assistants here; for here is a patient who needs immediate attention.”
Elfie arose; but, before leaving the spot, stooped over the wounded man and kissed his forehead, murmuring:
“Good-bye, Albert. If you ever doubted my reconciliation to you, believe it now.”
“Thanks, dear Elfie! You will come again?” he said, holding her hand and detaining her.
“Yes, I will come as often and stay as long as they will let me,” she sobbed.