“I wish mother were here,” she thought, a great wave of longing sweeping over her. “Oh, I do wish that mother were here, or else that everything was done that must be done so that I could go back.”
At this point in her musings Nurse Johnson returned, and it was well that she did so, for Peggy was getting very close to the point of breaking down.
“You are tired,” exclaimed the nurse at sight of her face. “Child, give o’er the meeting until to-morrow. You would be more fit then.”
“’Tis naught, friend nurse,” said Peggy rousing herself resolutely. “I fear me I was getting just a little homesick. And how is my cousin? Is he—is he——”
“He is better,” the nurse hastened to tell her. “Much better, the matron says, and longing for his sister. You are to go to him at once, but he must not do much talking as he is still very weak. With careful nursing he may pull through. And now come, but be careful.”
Peggy arose and followed her across the hall into a large room, scrupulously clean, and bare of furniture save the rows of beds, some small tables and a few chairs.
On one of the beds in the far corner of the room lay a youth so like her father that Peggy could not repress an exclamation. His eyes were closed; his face very pale, and serene in its repose. His hair was light brown in color, with auburn lights in it that fell low over his forehead. Peggy drew near and looked at him with full heart.
“How like he is to father,” she murmured with a quick intake of her breath. “He doth not look like either Cousin William, or Harriet. Oh, he should have been my brother!”
The nurse bent over the lad, and touched him gently.
“Captain Williams,” she said. “Here is some one to see you.”