As the dawn came in, pale and cold, Dr. McAllister turned from the bed and took his hand from father's wrist. He looked old and grey—dear Doctor Mac, but his eyes were radiant.
"He'll pull through!" he said simply.
All about me was a singing darkness. Through it I heard a voice say sharply, "Look to the lassie, Bill!" and felt strong arms around me. Before I lost complete consciousness I remember putting up my hand to brush something wet from my face. Tears? Not my tears.
"Don't cry," I said childishly. "It hurts father to see people cry."
When I woke again it was bright daylight. I was in my own room on my own bed. My husband was sitting, his hands between his knees, beside me.
For a moment I stared at him. Then, as knowledge flashed through me like a terrifying tide,
"Father?" I questioned, very low.
"He's all right, Mavis," said Dr. Denton quietly. "The danger is past—thank God!"
I put out my hand, gropingly, and he took it firmly into his.
"Cry now," he said gently. "It will help."