He hurried up the back stairs. Mr. Ginn, who seemed a trifle suspicious, called after him, but the call was unheeded.
At the door of his wife's room—his room no longer—Captain Dan rapped softly. The nurse opened the door.
“How is she?” he whispered.
“She is asleep now,” whispered the nurse in reply. “You must not come in.”
“I wasn't goin' to. But—but—has she been askin' for me?”
“Yes. I told her you were out. If she wakes and asks for you I will call. You may see her then for a minute or two. She is easier when you are with her—or near by.”
This was true. The one person Serena wished to see most of all was her husband. She asked for Gertrude, of course, but it was Daniel for whom she asked continually. If he were near her she seemed almost happy and contented. It was when he sat beside the bed that she ceased tossing upon the pillow and lay quiet, looking at him.
“You are a good man, Daniel,” she whispered, on one of these occasions. “A dear, good, unselfish man.”
“No, no, I ain't any such thing,” protested the captain hastily.
“But you are. And—and WHAT should I do without you now?”