“And he is dead, brave soul?”
“No—not when I came away. He might linger some time. It was impossible for the doctors to say.”
“And you deserted his dying bed, Royall Sherwood, when he had given his life for yours? Cruel!” she cried, with passionate indignation.
He looked abashed for a moment, then answered:
“Poor fellow! I could do him no good staying till the last, and I was eager to see Daisie, of course. Who could blame me?”
“Let me go home!” the girl cried chokingly, rushing from among them to seek her mother’s sympathetic arms.
Passionate sobs, a meek confession, eager entreaties, and mother and daughter set out on the first train for New York.
In the gray dawn, they reached the hospital.
“Is he alive yet?”
“Oh, yes; and there is the barest chance he may pull through, in spite of his awful injuries. So glad that some of his friends are come at last. Poor fellow! He seemed so lonely,” said the kind nurse.