“I wish you would, if you can.”
And while she deftly rearranged the bandages, the young man watched her curiously. Presently he asked, “How came you to know so much about these things?”
“In the hospital where I was ill, I saw much that interested me, and when I got better, I used to sing to the patients sometimes.”
“Do you mean to sing to me?” he asked, in the submissive tone men unconsciously adopt when ill and in a woman’s care.
“If you like it better than reading aloud in a dreamy tone,” she answered, as she tied the last knot.
“I do, much better,” he said decidedly.
“You are feverish. I shall wet your forehead, and then you will be quite comfortable.” She moved about the room in the quiet way which made it a pleasure to watch her, and, having mingled a little cologne with water, bathed his face as unconcernedly as if he had been a child. Her proceedings not only comforted but amused Coventry, who mentally contrasted her with the stout, beer-drinking matron who had ruled over him in his last illness.
“A clever, kindly little woman,” he thought, and felt quite at his ease, she was so perfectly easy herself.
“There, now you look more like yourself,” she said with an approving nod as she finished, and smoothed the dark locks off his forehead with a cool, soft hand. Then seating herself in a large chair near by, she began to sing, while tidily rolling up the fresh bandages which had been left for the morning. Coventry lay watching her by the dim light that burned in the room, and she sang on as easily as a bird, a dreamy, low-toned lullaby, which soothed the listener like a spell. Presently, looking up to see the effect of her song, she found the young man wide awake, and regarding her with a curious mixture of pleasure, interest, and admiration.
“Shut your eyes, Mr. Coventry,” she said, with a reproving shake of the head, and an odd little smile.