He threw off the kind of lethargy that possessed him, and presently, when a nurse came to bring him some food, he looked up into her kindly face. She was a Frenchwoman, who was doing all that a woman could, to help; she was not there to kill, but to save.
"Mademoiselle, you're very kind."
"I'm not mademoiselle," was the woman's reply in French; "I am madame." Her voice trembled as she spoke: "I was married just before the war, and my husband was called away to fight."
"Where is he now?"
"I don't know; I have not heard for weeks, but I live in hope. I pray that he will come back; meanwhile, I am doing what I can."
"I wish I could fight again," said Bob.
"Ah, but you will; the doctor told me. Ah, here is the doctor!"
"I'm not done for, doctor?" asked Bob.
"Done for? My dear chap, no; you've had a bad time—collar-bone broken, two ribs broken, nasty wound in your side—but in a few weeks you'll be all right again. Is there any one to whom I could write, so that their minds may be relieved about you?"
"Yes," said Bob, "write to my mother," and he told the doctor his mother's name and address.