He used to talk of them all the time, and worry terribly.
But now he cannot talk at all, and he does not worry any more. He smiles quite happily and has no more grief.
When they do the dressings of Number 26 he crams his handkerchief into his mouth so that he may not scream. He shivers and trembles and the tears roll down his cheeks, very big tears. But he never makes a sound.
Number 15 is not a boy at all, but just a little sick thing. He is so very little in his bed. He is like a sparrow—the skeleton of a sparrow.
I feed him crumbs of bread, and sips of water, as if he were a sparrow.
How one loves a thing one has fed with a teaspoon.
I do not like No. 30. I am always so afraid that I shall in some way show how I dislike him. It is hateful of me, but I cannot like him. He screams at his dressings, and he is fat, and he sends out and buys cheeses and eats them.
The little Zouave is better again. That is the most dreadful thing, that it is so long. He takes so long to die. The days when he is better are the most cruel days.
To-day in the middle of the morning, he was beckoning to me with a feeble little thin brown hand.
I went over and bent down, for he can only whisper.