“Oh,” said Sonny, eyeing me doubtfully. I reached over to straighten his sheets. Through long hours of suffering, of lying helpless in bed and being at times rather nearer the other world than this, Sonny has developed a highly sensitive intuition.
“Oh,” he said again. He was not satisfied but had good manners. “Did you have a nice time at the party?” he asked cheerfully.
“At the party—— Why, no, Sonny. It—er—wasn’t a very nice party. It was too hot.”
“I guess Miss Day didn’t get time to come in and tell me about it. I looked for her. But she must have been too busy.”
“But I thought——” I checked myself abruptly, continuing: “Maybe she will come in to see you to-night. What is it you wanted, Sonny?”
“Just a fresh drink, please. And would you change my pillows?”
I brought the fresh drink and made him as comfortable as possible.
So Maida had not been in to see Sonny last night after all! And she had volunteered the information, I remembered; I had not even asked for it. I deliberated over the matter for some time before I came to the reluctant conclusion that only an affair of importance would have brought Maida to the point of telling a deliberate lie. Which conclusion did not lighten my state of mind.
The night didn’t go so well after that.
From midnight until four o’clock are the dreaded hours of St. Ann’s régime. They are gray, cold, dreary hours—hours when pulses lag most feebly, when the breath comes most wearily, when life seems a burden that is all too easily escaped and the other world seems so near that the nurse must cling to her patients with all her will to keep them from making that quiet, easy journey. It is one of the demands of our profession that the most is asked of our strength at a time when it is at its lowest ebb.