[XIII]
It was the sixth day, and Edith Dalton was doing well—the wound was doing well. As for the woman, she lay with indifferent eyes looking at the white wall of her room and waiting recovery. The only time that the look in the eyes changed was when Aunt Jane appeared in the doorway for a moment, or sat by her bed. Then it would deepen to a question and flicker toward hope.
"Doing well?" Aunt Jane would say. "They give you good things to eat, don't they?"
The woman smiled faintly. "Yes."
"That's right. Eat and sleep. And hope don't hurt—a little of it."
"Aunt Jane?" The voice had a sharp note. The invalid was resting against the pillows that had been raised on the bed.
"Yes?" Aunt Jane turned back.
"Hasn't he been to see me—once—my husband?" There was a shamed, half-imperious note in the words.
Aunt Jane sat down comfortably by the bed and looked at her. Then she shook her head chidingly.... "I've never seen a sick person yet that wasn't unreasonable," she said.
The woman's face relaxed. "I know," she said apologetically, "but when one is sick the days are long."