“You are the only one left whom I know. I owe you far more than the small attendance which I have given you.”
“But will you not take some rest?”
“Hush! Wait till you are stronger. You are too weak now to think of these things.”
She laid her thin hand on my forehead gently. I turned my head away, and burst into a flood of tears. Why was it that this child was called upon to endure such agony? Why, in the midst of that agony, did she come to me to save my life? I did not resist her any longer on that day; but the next day I was stronger, and made her go and repose herself.
For two successive days she came back. On the third day she did not appear. The fourth day also she was absent. Rude nurses attended to me. They knew nothing of her. My anxiety inspired me with such energy that on the fourth day I rose from my bed and staggered about to find her if possible.
All was still confusion. Thousands of sick were on the island. The mistake of the first week had not yet been repaired. No one knew any thing of Edith. I sought her through all the wards. I went to the superintendent, and forced him to make inquiries about her. No one could tell any thing.
My despair was terrible. I forced the superintendent to call up all the nurses and doctors, and question them all, one by one. At last an old Irish woman, with an awful look at me, hinted that she could tell something about her, and whispered a word or two in the superintendent’s ear. He started back, with a fearful glance.
“What is it? Tell, in God’s name!”
“The dead-house,” he murmured.
“Where is it? Take me there!” I cried to the woman. I clutched her arm and staggered after her.