In through the casement to the westward there came a soft breath of flower-scented air. The nurse felt its caress upon her cheek, and laid aside her fan. Then, with a little sigh of relief, she rose from her chair, and quietly stole over to the window for a moment’s glance out into the garden which lay below.
She was standing there when her trained ear caught the sound of a restless movement upon the cot. “A glass of water, please,” murmured the sick man, as she turned and came quickly towards him.
“Thank you,” said he, after a long, grateful draught from the glass which she had held to his lips. “I must be a terrible nuisance to you. But,” he added, in a lower tone, “it’ll not be for much longer, please God!”
“Sh-h!” said the nurse, reprovingly. “You mustn’t say that. I can’t see, I’m sure, why it should be thought that nurses are intended more for ornament than use. Not,” with a smile, “but that we’re flattered by that view of the situation.”
“But really and truly,” she went on, picking up the fan, “we should grow terribly tired of the monotony if it weren’t for the relief that comes from doing these little things.”
“I suppose I must believe you,” said the sick man, smiling faintly in his turn. “And if—‘really and truly’—it will serve to break the monotony, I’ll venture to ask you to do me one more favor. About that packet of trinkets that I—”
“Oh, how stupid of me!” exclaimed the nurse, hastily rising from her chair. “The superintendent sent them in while you were taking your nap.” With the swift, noiseless step of one long trained in hospital service she crossed the room, and took from the mantel a small package. “Here they are,” said she. “Shall I take them out for you?”
At his nod of assent she deftly untied the faded blue ribbon with which the packet was secured, removed the tissue-paper covering, and brought to light a jewel-case, in which lay three military decorations—the badge of the Loyal Legion, the plain, bronze star of the Grand Army, and the enamelled Maltese cross of the old 19th Army Corps.
One by one she laid the medals upon the thin hand feebly outstretched over the white coverlid, and for a moment the sick man’s tired eyes kindled as he gazed upon them. But the feeble hand relaxed, the eyes quickly became dim again. “Ah, well,” he said, a bit huskily, “I’m through—through with all that now. And I’ve no son—there’s no one to care—no one to whom I can leave these things. You’ll see that some one pins them on my breast when—when I’m carried out?”
“Yes,” said the nurse, gathering up the medals as she spoke, “I’ll be very careful about having it done.” And then she added quietly, “I’ll attend to it myself.”