“He may be better if he sleeps,” she said. “He has hardly had any real sleep since he was taken ill.”
“Poor little man!” David Linton’s voice was very gentle. “He’s putting up a good fight, Mrs. Hunt.”
“Oh, he’s so good!” The mother’s eyes filled with tears. “He does everything we tell him—you know he fought us a bit at first, and then we told him he was on parade and we were the officers, and he has done everything in soldier-fashion since. I think he even tried to take his medicine smartly—until he grew too weak. But he never sleeps more than a few moments unless he can feel one of us; it doesn’t seem to matter whether it’s Norah or me.”
Geoffrey stirred, and they heard Norah’s low voice.
“Go to sleep, old chap; it’s ‘Lights Out,’ you know. You mustn’t wake up until Reveille.”
“Has ‘Last Post’ gone?” Geoffrey asked feebly.
“Oh yes. All the camp is going to sleep.”
“Is Father?”
“Yes. Now you must go to sleep with him, the whole night long.”
“Stay close,” Geoffrey whispered. His weak little fingers drew her hand against his face. Then no sound came but fitful breathing.