"Why, Lloyd, why, what is it—what is the matter?"
Lloyd sprang up sharply at the sound of her voice, and then sank down to a sitting posture upon the edge of the couch. Quietly enough she said:
"Oh, is it you? I didn't know—expect to find any one—"
"You don't mind, do you? I just ran in to get a book—something to read. I've had a headache all day, and didn't go down to supper."
Lloyd nodded. "Of course—I don't mind," she said, a little wearily.
"But tell me," continued the fever nurse, "whatever is the matter? When you came in just now—I never saw you so—oh, I understand, your case at Medford—"
Lloyd's hands closed tight upon the edge of the couch.
"No one could have got a patient through when the fever had got as far as that," continued the other. "This must have been the fifth or sixth week. The second telegram came just in time to prevent my going. I was just going out of the door when the boy came with it."
"You? What telegram?" inquired Lloyd.
"Yes, I was on call. The first despatch asking for another extra nurse came about two o'clock. The four-twenty was the first train I could have taken—the two-forty-five express is a through train and don't stop at Medford—and, as I say, I was just going out of the door when Dr. Pitts's second despatch came, countermanding the first, and telling us that the patient had died. It seems that it was one of the officers of the Freja expedition. We didn't know—"