“You have brought a new nurse? That’s right. I need not praise Sister Gonzaga, for you know her; but I assure you Fraulein Henrica won’t allow her to remain with her long, and I shall leave this house as soon as the funeral is over.”
“You have done your duty; but what does this news about the Sister mean?” cried the physician angrily. “I’d rather have your old Gonzaga with her burnt fingers than—what has happened?”
The priest approached and, hastily casting a side glance at the burgomaster’s wife, exclaimed:
“She speaks through her nose, and Fraulein Henrica said just now it made her ache to hear her talk; I must keep her away.”
Doctor Bontius reflected a moment, and then said: “There are eyes that cannot endure a glare of light, and perhaps certain tones may seem unbearable to irritated ears. Frau Van der Werff, you have been kept waiting a long time, please follow me.”
It had grown dark. The curtains of the sick-room were lowered and a small lamp, burning behind a screen, shed but a feeble light.
The doctor approached the bed, felt Henrica’s pulse, said a few words in a low tone to prepare her for her visitor, and then took the lamp to see how the invalid looked.
Maria now beheld a pale face with regular outline, whose dark eyes, in their size and lustre, formed a striking contrast to the emaciated cheeks and sunken features of the sick girl.
After old Sister Gonzaga had restored the lamp to its former place, the physician said:
“Excellent! Now, Sister, go and change the bandage on your arm and lie down.” Then he beckoned Maria to approach.