"You will have your hands more than full, Mrs. Richardson, with your son and daughter ill at once," he remarked. "You must have an experienced nurse to assist you."
"The poor girl is not my daughter; I do not even know who she is," the woman replied, as she bent over the beautiful stranger with a tender, motherly face.
"Not your child! Who can she be, then?" her companion inquired, in surprise.
They searched in her pretty velvet bag, hoping to find her card or some address; but nothing was found save some car tickets and a generous sum of money.
The inscription upon her music-roll revealed scarcely more—only the initials "V. D. H." being engraven upon its silver clasp.
She had recovered consciousness, but still lay so weak and faint that the surgeon did not think it best to question her just then, and, after taking one more look at his other patient, he went away to other duties, but promised to look in upon them again in a couple of hours.
When he did return he found Wallace comfortable and sleeping; but the young girl was in a high fever and raving with delirium.
"Shall I have her taken to the hospital?" Doctor Norton asked of Mrs. Richardson. "The care of both patients will be far too much for you, and her friends will probably find her there before long."
"I cannot bear to let her go," Mrs. Richardson replied, with staring tears. "She is so young, and has been so delicately reared. I know that she would have the best of care; still I recoil from the thought of having her moved. Leave her here for a day or two, and, if my son is comfortable, perhaps I can take care of her without neglecting him."
Thus it was arranged, and the physician went away thinking that women like Mrs. Richardson were rare.