CHAPTER XXXI
IN THE HOSPITAL
In a private room of a New York hospital, a pale, pain-worn man lay resting upon his pillows. The surgeons said that he was almost fit for discharge, and there was the gleam of returning health in his dark eyes and a faint color in the firm lips beneath the heavy moustache.
He had been looking through his window toward the western sky, but his thoughts were not upon it, and he scarcely heard his nurse when she entered. Ill as he would have appeared to anybody who had known him in his vigor, his present state and progress were satisfactory to her. She announced her arrival by asking:
“Well, Mr. Manuel, have you been sleeping any?”
“Thank you, no. I’ve just been dreaming, Miss Burnham. I’m very homesick; very restless and anxious to see my children.”
“That’s good. I like to hear my patients talk like that. It’s a certain sign of improvement when their interest in things returns. Such an evidence of strength on your part that, if you wish, I will read to you whatever you fancy. I’m sure you are able to listen and enjoy news now.”
“Can’t I do that for myself? Though the doctor did forbid me to use my eyes much yet.”
“Quite right he was. ‘Make haste slowly’ and you’ll not regret it.”
“Haste! when I’ve been here for months!”
“Better for months than for life—or death. What shall I begin with?” she answered, opening the evening paper as she spoke.