So Doctor Rupert knew too well how futile would be a crusade at present in Eva’s defense, for he realized that there was more behind the scenes than he at first suspected.
He did not doubt the truth of Doctor Binks’ accusation against the stupid Dan Ellis; he only wondered why he had denied it and fled from the doctor’s wrath.
There was a mystery in that flight that Doctor Rupert said to himself grimly would bear investigation when he could find time.
But first in his thoughts was the duty of restoring Eva’s reason. To that task he bent himself with ardor all the more eager because it had to be concealed.
But he had stirred such a zeal in Doctor Bertrand that in her capacity of a sister woman she could approach Eva oftener and show her more kindness than he dared to do.
This keen sympathy of her anxious friends seemed to surround Eva with an atmosphere of love and good will, through which the light of reason began to penetrate to her bewildered mind. Now and then she had a shy, sweet smile for the woman doctor; now and then she offered a light caress, and presently she began to open the books that were given her, and stare dreamily at the illustrations. She ceased chanting her soul-piercing melancholy songs, and talked to herself instead, sometimes like a little child at play.
One day Doctor Rupert, pausing at a little distance to watch her, while he seemed to be busy with another patient, saw her pick up a paper that had fallen from her book and open it with trembling fingers.
He was close enough to see that the unfolded sheet had some verses written on it in a large, masculine hand, and he glanced curiously at Eva’s face.
It was startling, the flash of joyous comprehension that changed her face like lightning from its dull blank of indifference, as her great sombre dark eyes ran over the verses.
“What has happened to little Eva? She looks brighter—almost sane! Has she a letter?” asked Doctor Bertrand, coming up to Rupert.