“I don’t believe it would hurt him,” Dr. Anderson said, looking down at her. “Might wake him up a bit—I know you won’t excite him.”
So it was that the Hermit, waking from a restless sleep, found by his side a small person with brown curls that he remembered.
“Why, it’s my little friend,” he murmured, feeling weakly for her hand. “This seems a queer world—old friends and new, all mixed up.”
“I’m so glad you’re better, dear Mr. Hermit,” Norah said. She bent and kissed him. “And we’re all friends—everybody.”
“You did that once before,” he said feebly. “No one had kissed me for such a long, long while. But mustn’t let you.”
“Why?” asked Norah blankly.
“Because—because people don’t think much of me, Miss Norah,” he said, a deep shade falling on his fine old face. “They say I’m no good. I don’t suppose I’d be allowed to be here, only I’m an old man, and I’m going to die.”
“But you’re not!” Norah cried. “Dr. Anderson says you’re not! And—and—oh, you’re making a great mistake. Everyone wants you.”
“Me!” said the Hermit, in sudden bitter scorn. “No, only strangers like you. Not my own.”
“Oh, you don’t know,” Norah protested. She was painfully aware of the order not to excite the patient, but it was awful to let him be so unhappy! “Dad’s not a stranger—he always knew you. And see how he wants you!”