She felt sorry for the anxious young husband, and said gently:
“My dear young lady, if you could bear to see him a little while it would make him very happy.”
Daisie was silent a moment, then she said gently and hopelessly, it seemed to the attentive nurse:
“Of course I will see my husband. It is his right and my duty—I mean, my pleasure.”
So the woman let her sit up after a while, and made her as pretty as she could—poor, pallid, wasted Daisie, with her shorn head, where the golden locks were just peeping out again, covered with a soft lace scarf; and so she awaited his coming.
She had been so sorry for his affliction that she was unselfishly glad of his restoration to health, and the tears came to her eyes when he entered, stepping with the free grace of old.
“Daisie!”
“Royall!”
She held her face up bravely for the kiss she knew he wanted, and the nurse, just leaving the room, thought it was a reconciliation.
“All will go well now,” she said.