“But you are not a nurse, you are a lady,” she persisted, “and you are so kind to me I want to know you.”
Virgie could not fail to feel a thrill of triumph at these words, she, who had been “that girl” and who had been held up to such scorn and contempt in those cruel letters so long ago.
“I am simply your nurse for the present,” she replied, with averted face; “perhaps some other time before I leave you I will tell you my name,” and her ladyship had to be content with that.
But Virgie did not remain quite so much with her after that, she did not need such constant care, and she left her more with the woman of the house. She went in several times every day, and was careful to see that she had every attention, but there was a quiet dignity and reserve about her which Lady Linton admired.
“Who is this beautiful woman who has been so kind to me—to whom I owe so much?” she asked the doctor one day.
“Truly she is a beautiful woman, and you do owe her a great deal. You owe her your life twice over,” he answered, impressively.
“How so?” was the surprised query.
“In the first place she saved you from that burning wreck almost at the risk of her own life; in the second place she is the only one in the town who could be found to give you proper care; everybody else was engaged with the other sufferers, and during those days and nights when you lay in that heavy stupor, she never left you; she fed you, she ministered most faithfully to your every need, and brought you safely out of it.”
“Was it she who came to me when I lay pinned down in my berth?” asked Lady Linton, gravely.
“Yes, madam.”