“He’s asleep now, and everything depends on his waking up right. But you set up a howl that would wake the dead!”
“Howl? dat’s singing,” came again from the hole in the floor.
“Well, keep your singing to yourself.”
The noise subsided, and the young nurse turned again to his patient.
He stood for some moments gazing down on the Saxon face so pitifully thin and delicate. The brow did not frown nor the lips quiver; no movement of the muscles betrayed the hopeless despair of the sleeper’s heart. The cot gave a creak and a rustle. The nurse was leaning one hand on the edge of the miserable pallet bed bending over the sick man. There was a light touch on his hair; a tear fell on his cheek; the nurse had kissed the patient!
When the door had closed behind the lad, Warren opened his eyes in full consciousness; and as he brushed the tear from his face, there came a puzzled look into his eyes.
Presently Allen returned with the soup and found him awake. His features lighted up with intelligence and sympathy on making the discovery, and finding him free from fever.
“Well, how are you getting on, sir?” he asked in the softest of musical voices, and feeling Warren’s pulse, as he seated himself on a stool at the bedside.
“Who are you? Haven’t I met you somewhere? Your voice has a familiar sound.”
“I fancy you don’t know me,” replied Allen with a smile.