“Your nerves are over-strung,” was the reply. “I ought to have known better.”
There was something so sweet and soothing in the deep musical tones of the soft voice that it had its effect upon the patient directly, and she lay back with a sigh.
“It don’t matter, nurse,” she said, “but do make haste and get me well.”
“Indeed, we are trying very hard. But you are mending fast. Sir Denton will be here soon to see you again.”
“Yes,” said the woman, with her brow growing rugged and a petulance of manner, “to hurt me again, horrid. He’ll kill me before he has done.”
“You do not think so, Maria,” said the nurse gently, as she laid her cool white hand upon the patient’s brow. “He is as tender and gentle as a woman, and he takes great interest in your case.”
“But, I say, they won’t take me into the theatre again, will they? Oh, I say, what a shame to call that horrid place a theatre!”
“No; that is all over now, and you have nothing to do now but get well and go back to the country.”
“But it takes so long, and it was so horrid with all those doctors and people, and the chloroform, and stuff, and—”
“Do you not think it would be better,” said the nurse gently, “if, instead of looking at what has passed in that spirit, you were to try and remember it only with gratitude, and think that a month back you were in a very dangerous state, while now you are rapidly getting well?”