She had not been told of her mother's death; men were not admitted to the ward, but early on that first morning, when she lay there, hardly conscious but in an ecstasy of relief from pain, Ellen had come. A tired Ellen with circles around her eyes, and a bag of oranges in her arms.
“How do you feel?” she had asked, sitting down self-consciously beside the bed. The ward had its eyes on her.
“I'm weak, but I'm all right. Last night was awful, Ellen.”
She had roused herself with an effort. Ellen reminded her of something, something that had to do with Willy Cameron. Then she remembered, and tried to raise herself in the bed.
“Willy!” she gasped. “Did he come home? Is he all right?”
“He's all right. It was him that found you were here. You lie back now; the nurse is looking.”
Edith lay down and closed her eyes, and the ecstasy of relief and peace gave to her pale face an almost spiritual look. Ellen saw it, and patted her arm with a roughened hand.
“You poor thing!” she said. “I've been as mean to you as I knew how to be. I'm going to be different, Edith. I'm just a cross old maid, and I guess I didn't understand.”
“You've been all right,” Edith said.
Ellen kissed her when she went away.