"Pickles?"
"Yes, sir. The soldiers prefer them to many luxuries. I have seen Miss Newton do many kind and generous acts. It is incredible that she should have planned and carried out so deliberate and cold-blooded a murder."
"Judge Holt asked me to-day—" The doctor's hurried whisper was interrupted by a sound from the bed, and he hurried to his patient.
Goddard lay on his back, gazing with unseeing eyes at the ceiling, one thin arm tossed across the pillow. "Nancy," he whispered; "Nancy!"
"He is always calling her name," murmured Sister Angelica. "Poor fellow—poor girl!"
"Aye," muttered Ward under his breath. "God help them both—one here and one in prison!"
"Nancy." Goddard's weak voice seemed to gain in strength. "Don't cry, dear. I am coming." A feeble smile lighted his face; he turned slightly, his eyes closed, and, with a sigh like a tired child, he slept.
Ward's hand sought Goddard's pulse. He touched the white cheek. The skin was cool and moist. Turning to the nurse, his eyes dancing with delight, he whispered: "The fever is broken. At last Major Goddard is sleeping naturally."
Sister Angelica's fervid "Thank God!" was lost in the folds of the sash curtain as she pulled up the shade and let the daylight enter the sick room.