“I’m wofully helpless,” said the man upon the cot apologetically; “may I trouble you to hand me the photograph?”
The nurse drew from beneath his pillow a faded and worn morocco case, opened it, and handed it to him. Then she turned away and made pretence of busying herself about some little matter, while her charge looked long and wistfully upon the picture of a woman’s face that smiled back at him from its resting place within the leathern frame.
The sick man sighed, but not unhappily. A look of peace came upon his worn face, and a smile—a wonderfully tender smile—hovered about his lips.
“Will you put the medals under my pillow?” said he, as the nurse came towards the bed. “Thank you. Really, you’ve been very kind to me. I’d like to tell you how grateful I am for it all—but may be I needn’t. My mind’s quite at rest now: those letters that you wrote for me settled the last of my worries. And now I’m not sure—I think—think that perhaps I could sleep again for a little while.” He wearily turned his head to one side, resting it upon the palm of his hand. And within the hand, pressed close against his cheek, lay the photograph in its worn and faded case.
The nurse smoothed out the pillow, passed her hand gently over the iron-grey hair that clustered thickly above his forehead, and taking her place by the bedside, once more began to swing the fan slowly to and fro.
In the great, white room the shadows deepened as the sun went down. The sick man was breathing regularly, but very lightly. He had fallen asleep. Once the silent watcher saw his lips move, and caught the sound of murmured words: then all was still again. The fan swung slowly back and forth—still more slowly—and then it stopped.
The world outside seemed very beautiful in the June twilight, and the confinement, by contrast, became doubly irksome. The nurse slipped quietly over to the open window. She was standing there when the house surgeon came briskly into the room. “S-sh!” said she, turning at the sound of the footsteps, and raising a warning hand. “He’s asleep.”
But the surgeon already was standing beside the cot. He gave one keen glance at the form lying before him, and placed his hand over the heart. Then he straightened up and turned towards the nurse. His face had become grave. “Yes,” said he, in answer to the look of anxious inquiry; “yes, he’s asleep. I hadn’t looked for this before tomorrow,” he went on quietly, “but he’s—he’s asleep, as you say.”
Dimness had come with the failing light, but it was not so dark that the doctor and the nurse could not see upon the dead man’s face the calm smile of perfect peace. “See,” whispered the nurse, gently drawing the photograph from its resting place—and as she held the picture towards her companion she gave a little sob. “Yes, I see,” said the surgeon, softly. “I know his story.” And then in a lower tone he added, “He’s asleep at last. God send him rest!”
* * * * *