Miriam, in the act of preparing Mrs. Nash’s medicine, did not answer. Going over to the bed she aroused the drowsy woman, helped her to a sitting position and held the medicine glass to her lips. Mrs. Nash drank slowly, and then settled back with a low sigh. Miriam busied herself about the bedroom for ten minutes before returning to the chair by the bed and found her patient regarding her steadfastly.
“When did my husband get here?” she asked.
“Around six o’clock yesterday afternoon,” replied Miriam.
“I do not remember.” Mrs. Nash passed her hand before her eyes. “He came while I was unconscious—?”
“Yes. Now, Mrs. Nash, don’t talk—”
“Was he with me all night?” Paying no attention to Miriam, she struggled up on her elbow as she put the question.
“He was in and out of the room most of the night,” Miriam bent over and adjusted the bedclothes. “Doctor Roberts was here also.”
Mrs. Nash was silent for some little time, her eyes roving about the big room, into which the daylight was stealing through the partly open windows; finally she gazed again at her nurse.
“I wasn’t so ill that I could not appreciate what you did for me,” she said, and Miriam was surprised at the amount of feeling in her voice. “I shan’t forget it, my dear.”
“Indeed, Mrs. Nash, you must not excite yourself,” Miriam protested, coloring warmly at her praise. “Please lie down again and try to sleep.”