“Nobody's worried over that remote contingency,” she retorted, “so do not endeavor to seek sympathy.”
He looked at her so tragically that she could not forbear a little laugh, as she ordered Donna to leave the room.
“The right of free speech—and free assemblage,” Mr. McGraw protested hoarsely, “is guaranteed to—every American citizen—under the con—”
“Silence!” commanded the nurse.
Mr. McGraw muttered something about gag rule and the horror of being mollycoddled, sighed dismally and predicted his death within the hour. Donna left the room and he was forced to amuse himself, until he fell asleep, watching the antics of an inquisitive lizard which in turn was watching him from a crack in the sun-baked adobe wall. As for Donna, the very fact that Bob was still a fighter and a rebel proved conclusively that within a week he would be absolutely unmanageable. This thought was productive of such joy in Donna's heart that she became a rebel herself. In the bright evening she took her guitar and went out into the patio, where she stood under Bob's window and sang for him a plaintive little Spanish love song. Donna's voice, while untrained, was, nevertheless, well pitched, sweet and true, and to Bob McGraw, who for three years had not heard a woman's voice raised in song, the simple melody was a treat indeed.
The nurse came out, looked at her and laughed, as who would not; for all the world loves a lover, and the nurse was very human.
“That's quite irregular, Miss Corblay,” she commented, “but in this particular case I believe it has a soothing effect. Mr. McGraw has promised me that he will be very good if I can induce you to sing for him every evening. He said 'Bravo' three times.”
“Then he has decided not to die after all.”
“I think he has changed his mind.”
“I'll sing him to sleep” Donna answered—and forthwith did so. And that night, when she retired, she could not sleep herself for the happiness that was hers; that excessive happiness which, more poignant than pain, is often productive of tears.