On the face of Pani Emilia the remnants of fear were struggling with hope and joy. Pan Stanislav noticed that her lips were almost white, her eyes dry and red, her face in blotches; she was mortally wearied, for she had not slept for twenty-four hours. But the doctor, a young man, and energetic, looked on the danger as passed for the time. Pani Emilia was strengthened by what he told her in presence of Pan Stanislav, especially this: “We should not let it come to a second attack, and we will not.”
There was real consolation in these words, for evidently the doctor considered that they were able to ward off another attack; still there was a warning that another attack might be fatal. But Pani Emilia grasped at every hope, as a man falling over a precipice grasps at the branches of trees growing out on the edge of it.
“We will not; we will not!” repeated she, pressing the doctor’s hand feverishly.
Pan Stanislav looked into his eyes unobserved, wishing to read in them whether he said this to pacify the mother, or on the basis of medical conviction, and asked as a test,—
“You will not leave her to-day?”
“I do not see the least need of staying,” answered he. “The child is exhausted, and is like to sleep long and soundly. I will come to-morrow, but to-day I can go with perfect safety.” Then he turned to Pani Emilia,—
“You must rest, too. All danger has passed; the patient should not see on your face any suffering or alarm, for she might be disturbed, and she is too weak to endure that.”
“I could not fall asleep,” said Pani Emilia.
The doctor turned his pale blue eyes to her, and, gazing into her face with a certain intensity, said slowly,—
“In an hour you will lie down, and will fall asleep directly; you will sleep unbrokenly for six or eight hours,—let us say eight. To-morrow you will be strong and refreshed. And now good-night.”