She had the care of two patients, each in a room by himself, with an open door between. One of these patients was a man with a broken arm, a displaced rib, a bandaged head and wandering brain. He made no trouble and was perfectly quiet, except an occasional mumbling to himself.
The other patient, the one who appealed more strongly to her sympathies, was a boy about fifteen. Both legs had been broken in an automobile collision and he was suffering from internal injuries. In spite of constant pain his courage never weakened. He was always in good spirits and trying his best to smile. His gratitude for any attention went straight to the heart of his nurse:—"That pretty little nurse with the sad face" as one surgeon described her.
Ruth was much impressed by Dr. Gladwin, a tall, heavy man, with a bushy head of the whitest hair. His eyes were threatening, his glance warlike, all in amusing contrast, however, to his friendly, cheerful voice, his gentle manners and his unfailing sympathy. He said to her that evening, after giving his instructions:
"We have not been able to define precisely this boy's injuries. The constant pain about his chest is a bad sign, but we are hoping for the best. His legs will be as good as ever."
While these words were spoken Ruth looked across the room toward the patient. His eyes were closed. The round boyish face was drawn with pain. At that moment his eyes opened and he returned Ruth's look with a smile. It was a smile of friendliness and courage, the resolute, pathetic courage of youth clinging to life. The look itself and the tale it told brought a sudden moistness to the eyes of the new nurse. Then she followed Dr. Gladwin into the adjoining room.
Standing by the bedside of the other patient she looked down upon a man whose eyes were partly covered by the bandage about his head. The pale face had the somewhat disreputable appearance that goes with a scrubby, unshaven chin.
"This man," said the doctor, "has, as you know, a broken arm and rib, with an injury to his head. He remains unconscious. The first few days he made no effort to speak. But now he murmurs something at intervals; always the same words, I am told. The effort to speak is a favorable sign in this case, as it indicates a returning memory. He will probably recover."
A few further instructions as to her own duties, and he departed.
Ruth found the boy more greedy for companionship than the unconscious patient—which was not surprising. No human being could be braver than this boy. Yearning for sympathy he liked to have his hand held by this new nurse. As the night wore on he told her in a fragmentary way, between periods of pain, of his parents in San Francisco, of his ambitions, if he ever recovered. He also gave details of his accident last Saturday, just how he was thrown from the motor when they collided with the other car.
But the new nurse did not neglect the less interesting patient in the next room. He seemed like one in a deep, unending sleep, except for the occasional smile that came to his lips and the muttered words—whatever they were.