Was she there now? Could she breathe upon the little wasting life some merciful dew of healing? or was she, perhaps, by her very love and longing, drawing the child home to herself?
That night Bessie was to sit up until one o’clock, and then to call the nurse. As for Colonel Trevethick, he would be in and out, as usual.
He went to bed, and fell into sleep and a dream. His own Maud was beside him as he saw her first, then as his bride, his wife, then with Baby Maudie on her breast; just as of old he seemed to have her with him again,—his pride, his darling, the one woman he had ever loved.
He woke at last. Had his dream, then, lasted the night through? Was this red ray that touched his face the first hint of the rising sun? He sprang up quickly. The whole night had indeed passed, and he had not seen Maudie. He hurried into a dressing-gown and went to her room. He expected to find the nurse there, but, instead, Bessie sat beside the table just where he had left her the night before, but sound asleep. Evidently she must have been asleep for hours, and had not called the nurse, who had slept in her turn: they were all tired enough, Heaven knows. But, meantime, what of Maudie? What harm had come to her, alone, unattended?
He drew aside the curtain of her little bed and looked in. Surely this was not the Maud he had left the night before, so pale and worn upon her pillows? A face looked up at him bright as the new day. A soft, healthy color was in the cheeks, and the moist lips were crimson.
“I knew I should be well if she tended me,” a voice cried, gayer and gladder than he had heard from her lips in two years.
What did the child mean? Had she gone mad? He controlled himself, and asked,—
“Who tended you, my child? I found Bessie sound asleep.”