Alone, Prosper twisted himself in his chair till his head rested on his arms. It was no relaxation of weariness or grief, but an attitude of cramped pain. His face, too, was cramped when, a motionless hour later, he lifted it again. He got up then, broken with weariness, and went softly across the matted hall into the room where Joan slept, and he stood beside her bed.
A glow from the stove, and the light shining through the door, dimly illumined her. She was sleeping very quietly now; the flush of fever had left her face and it was clear of pain, quite simple and sad. Prosper looked at her and looked about the room as though he felt what he saw to be a dream. He put his hand on one long strand of Joan’s black hair.
“Poor child!” he said. “Good child!” And went out softly, shutting the door.
In the bedroom where Joan came again to altered consciousness of life, there stood a blue china jar of potpourri, rose-leaves dried and spiced till they stored all the richness of a Southern summer. Joan’s first question, strangely enough, was drawn from her by the persistence of this vague and pungent sweetness.
She was lying quietly with closed eyes, Prosper looking down at her, his finger on her even pulse, when, without opening her long lids, she asked, “What smells so good?”
Prosper started, drew away his fingers, then answered, smiling, “It’s a jar of dried rose-leaves. Wait a moment, I’ll let you hold it.”
He took the jar from the window sill and carried it to her.
She looked at it, took it in her hands, and when he removed the lid, she stirred the leaves curiously with her long forefinger.
“I never seen roses,” she said, and added, “What’s basil?”
Prosper was startled. For an instant all his suppositions as to Joan were disturbed. “Basil? Where did you ever hear of basil?”