“How about you?” with a keen glance at her. “Have you had any sleep? Ah, I can see you haven’t, so don’t lie.” The injunction slipped out with Mrs. Nash’s customary abruptness and Miriam could not forbear a smile. Undoubtedly Mrs. Nash was recovering. “Go and lie down on that cot which I had Martha bring here yesterday afternoon for you. Don’t be afraid”—with a fleeting smile—“I’ll make my wants known.” And considering the argument settled Mrs. Nash turned to a more comfortable position and closed her eyes.
Without moving Miriam considered her in silence. It was only when she heard Mrs. Nash’s regular breathing and realized that she had fallen into peaceful slumber that she walked over to the cot and, drawing back the heavy blanket, threw herself, dressed as she was, down upon it. Her head had hardly touched the pillow before she was sound asleep. An hour passed and she still slept on, totally unaware that some one had stealthily entered the room.
Mrs. Nash stirred, opened her eyes and sat up. What was the noise which had awakened her? Her eyes darted about the room as she turned her head from side to side, and she bent this way and that to get a better view of each piece of furniture. A gentle snore from Miriam suggested a solution—had a louder snore aroused her? Mrs. Nash lay back among the pillows, but she did not close her eyes.
It was close upon eight o’clock when Miriam awoke and, refreshed by her long nap, sprang up, to find Mrs. Nash’s bright black eyes regarding her with an expression she could not fathom.
The desultory conversation about the breakfast table ceased altogether with the departure into the pantry of Anna, the capable daughter of a neighboring farmer, whom Martha had secured to aid her in caring for the guests at Abbott’s Lodge. She had often assisted Martha when Paul Abbott and his father had entertained parties in the hunting season and her familiarity with the household arrangements made her presence invaluable at the moment to the overworked housekeeper, whose duties had multiplied with the alarming illness of Mrs. Nash.
Doctor Roberts and Alan Mason had eaten with relish Martha’s buckwheat cakes and country sausage, but Alexander Nash scarcely tasted a mouthful of the appetizing breakfast, contenting himself with several cups of black coffee.
“Must you return to Washington, Roberts?” he asked, pushing aside his plate.
“Yes; I must be at Garfield by noon for an important operation.” Roberts paused to light a cigar handed to him by Alan. “There is every reason to believe that Mrs. Nash will continue to improve.”
Nash looked moodily at the unused knife which he was balancing between his fingers. “Is there any country doctor in the neighborhood, Alan, whom we could call on in an emergency?” he asked.
“I suppose so,” Alan stopped to knock the ashes from his cigar into his coffee cup. “I’ll get in touch with Trenholm and ask him.”