About two o'clock in the morning the boy closed his eyes and he, also, slept. Ruth arranged the covering about his neck and shoulders then stepped gently into the adjoining room. For a moment she stood at the bedside of the unconscious man with the scrubby chin. He lay motionless, and in a slumber so deep, so silent, that it seemed to Ruth he could easily pass away and none be wiser. Then, for a time, she stood at the open window, looking out into the peaceful summer night and up at the stars. Her thoughts, when alone these days, were always in the past, and they were heart breaking. To-night, even the rising moon, although in its fullest beauty, seemed a perfect symbol of her own future—a world of dust and ashes.
At last, with a sigh of resignation—a sigh of despair and buried hopes—she left the window. Again she stood beside the unconscious and less interesting patient; he of the bandaged head and scrubby chin. As she was turning away she noticed a movement of his lips—the beginning of the periodic smile. She felt a sudden curiosity to hear the coming words. If, as the doctor said, they were always the same, they might be a message he had wished to send, important to wife or parents, that could lead to his identification. Besides she had a strong desire to learn what words or what thought behind the words—could bring so much happiness, even momentarily, to a half conscious spirit.
The light in the room, while softened by shades, was clear enough to reveal the uncovered portion of his face. And, as she looked more carefully, the face was less "common" than she had judged from the unshaven chin. She leaned over the bed, her face not far from his, and listened. Through the open window came no sound from the sleeping city; only the pale light from the rising moon; that cold, dead world of dust and ashes. It may have been the solitude and the silence of the hour that brought to Ruth a feeling of awe—almost of guilt at this intrusion upon the privacy of another's thoughts; secrets, perhaps, of a defenseless brain. As she was wondering what sort of accident had brought him there the blissful smile became more pronounced. Although his eyes were partly covered by the overhanging bandage it was clear that the dormant spirit within was stirred by memories of a supreme happiness, of a transcendent joy that no physical pain could extinguish.
Further still she bent over, until her face was near his own.
Then, through every nerve of brain and body, she felt a sensation of mingled awe, of terror, of bewilderment, as if she were suddenly in touch with another world, when she heard, hardly above a whisper:
"Cyrus, come back. I have—always—loved you."
Breathless, as in a trance, Ruth gazed at the lips, where lingered—but slowly fading, as if reluctant to pass away—the expression of a great content. The brief liberty of a rapturous thought. Then back into the darkness.
Needless to say that Cyrus Alton was not neglected during his convalescence. And Dr. Gladwin's prophecy was correct. Cyrus not only recovered but his recovery, after once regaining consciousness, was surprisingly rapid. So rapid that the "little nurse with the sad face" threw aside her sadness, as if waking from a dream, and became the happiest and most inspiriting person in her vicinity.