She was moving toward the door—but it had swung softly back into the shadowy room, and Aunt Jane was nodding to her and smiling—with a subdued half-gesture toward the bed.
"I'll take him now," she said in her low voice.
"Shall I call Dr. Carmon?"
"Not yet." She went on toward the bed and the nurse passed out.
In the dimness of the room, nothing had happened. The curtains swayed a little in the breeze—the motionless figure on the bed lay rigid as before under its blanket—and the shadows crept toward it and back. But in the turning of a minute, forces had ranged themselves in the quiet room.
Aunt Jane turned off the light and pushed back the curtains from the window and brought a chair to the side of the bed, and sat down quietly with the forces. She had moved with the certainty of one who sees what is to be done. She knew that presently there would steal out from the shadows something that has neither name nor shape.
She slipped her hand along inside the blanket and found the lifeless one and rubbed it a little and touched the wrist with firm, quick fingers and clasped the hand close.
Then she sat with her head bent, as motionless as the figure beside her. The moments came and went. Outside, the clock-tower boomed the hour softly, and then the half-hour; and somewhere in the distance a rooster crowed—a shrill, clear call, like light.... Something ran through the figure on the bed—the man stirred a little. Half-way through the lifeless fingers something crept toward warmth, and lay chill—and went slowly back and came again—and Aunt Jane's hand closed on it, clean and soft.... The man stirred and opened his eyes and stared vaguely out.