“Do you know me?” he asked so kindly, and with so much of genuine sympathy in his voice, that the heavy eyelids quivered for an instant, as Wilford nodded his head, and whispered,
“Dr. Grant.”
There had been a momentary flash of resentment when he saw the watcher beside him, but Wilford was too weak, too helpless to cherish that feeling long, and besides there were floating through his still bewildered mind visions of some friendly hand, which had ministered to him daily—of a voice and form, distinct from the one he thought an angel’s, and which was not there now with him. That voice, that form, he felt sure belonged to Morris Grant, and remembering his past harshness toward him, a chord of gratitude was touched, and when Morris took his hand he did not at once withdraw it, but let his long, white fingers cling around the warm, vigorous ones, which seemed to impart new life and strength.
“You have been very sick,” Morris said, anticipating the question Wilford would ask. “You are very sick still, and at the request of your nurse I came to attend you.”
A pressure of the hand was Wilford’s reply, and then there was silence between them, while Wilford mastered all his pride, and with quivering lips whispered,
“Katy!”
“We have sent for her. We expect her every train,” Morris replied, and Wilford asked,
“Who has been with me—the nurse, I mean? Who is she?”
Morris hesitated a moment, and then said,
“Marian Hazelton.”