He sat down on the edge of the bed and took one of the child's hot hands in his.
Then the terror of the delirium fell on her again. She sat up in bed, flinging out her arms and crying, and still the boy kept that firm pressure on her hand. The sustaining touch won her back from the thraldom of the fever and she threw herself into the boy's arms and lay there, sobbing—sobbing.
The post surgeon nodded.
"I thought so," he muttered from the doorway, and beckoned the others into the adjoining room.
For an hour they sat there. Gradually the child's sobs grew weaker; after awhile they caught their echo at long intervals and by and by they died away altogether.
The shadows of the dying day crept into the sick room and the wanness of its departing struggle was reflected on Cary's small, pinched face. She still lay in the boy's arms, quiet—spent with the effort of her delirium. The boy sat rigidly mute, supporting her.
The day sank into evening and the post surgeon came in quietly from the adjoining room. The boy's eyes met his as he entered. It was his only movement. Otherwise he might have been carved of stone. The boy's eyes smiled and the post surgeon retraced his steps.
"She's sleeping. The boy holds her life in his hands. If he can only remain motionless—"
Another hour slipped by. The post surgeon came in again. Cary was sleeping still, her whole weight resting in the boy's rigid arms. He was growing white with the strain of his enforced position. The surgeon looked down at him.
"Can you hold out?" he asked, below his breath.