I could see no one in the room, and all was silent save for the singing of the birds and the humming of the insects. I had a vague consciousness that the feeling of summer was in the air, and a delicious kind of restfulness possessed me. I was no longer too tired to lie down, rather I felt the luxury of being in bed. I suffered no pain either, although at my side, where I remembered suffering exquisite agony, was a kind of tingling sensation which I associated with a wound in the act of healing.
I saw a woman come to the head of my bed; she wore a nurse's uniform, and had a placid, kindly face.
"Who are you, and where am I?"
I know I spoke the words, but I did not recognize my voice at all; it seemed far away, like a whispering among breezes.
The woman said something, I know, but what, I could not tell. I imagine the effect was soothing, for immediately afterwards I found myself going to sleep.
Again I was conscious, more vividly conscious than before. The outlines of the room were the same, and I was able to recognize some of the furniture which I had previously seen. I remembered, too, lifting my hand from the counterpane and noting how thin and white it was.
The door of the room opened and a man entered. I saw at a glance that it was Simpson, and I looked at him through my half-closed eyes. He came to my bedside and looked steadily at me, then he placed his hand gently on my forehead; his touch was as soft as that of a woman.
"Simpson," I said, and this time I was able to recognize my voice. "Is that you, Simpson?"
"Yes, sir; thank you, sir."
His old-time formula acted on me like a tonic; it made me want to laugh. Yes, I really was alive then, and Simpson was with me; but what was the meaning of this strange room?