He was lying meditating, wakefully, about many things one day when one of the nurses approached his bed. He did not see her at first, because his head was so swathed in bandages that only one eye was permitted to do duty, and that, as Molloy might have said, was on the lee-side of his nose—supposing the side next the nurse to represent the wind’ard side!
“I have been laid up a long time,” said a lady, who accompanied the nurse, “and have been longing to resume my visits here, as one or two patients whom I used to nurse are still in hospital.”
The heart of Miles gave a bound such as it had not attempted since the night he witnessed the murder on the battle-field, for the voice was that of Mrs Drew.
“This is one of our latest arrivals,” remarked the nurse, lowering her voice as they advanced. “A poor young soldier—lost a hand and badly wounded—can’t sleep. He has taken a strange longing of late for a rose, and I have asked a friend to fetch one for him.”
“How lucky that we happen to have one with us!” said Mrs Drew, looking back over her shoulder where her daughter stood, concealed from view by her ample person. “Marion, dear, will you part with your rose-bud to a wounded soldier?”
“Certainly, mother, I will give it him myself.”
She stepped quickly forward, and looked sadly at the solitary, glowing eye which gazed at her, as she unfastened a rose-bud from her bosom. It was evident that she did not recognise Miles, and no wonder, for, besides the mass of bandages from out of which his one eye glowed, there was a strip of plaster across the bridge of his nose, a puffy swelling in one of the cheeks, and the handsome mouth and chin were somewhat veiled by a rapidly developing moustache and beard.
Miles did not speak—he could not speak; he scarcely dared to breathe as the girl placed a red rose-bud in his thin hand. His trembling fingers not only took the rose, but the hand that gave it, and pressed it feebly to his lips.
With a few words of comfort and good wishes the ladies passed on. Then Miles drew the rose down under the bed-clothes, put it to his lips, and, with a fervently thankful mind, fell into the first profound slumber that he had enjoyed for many days.
This was a turning-point. From that day Miles began to mend. He did not see Marion again for some time, for her visit had been quite incidental, but he was satisfied to learn that she was staying at the Institute with her mother, assisting the workers there. He wisely resolved to do and say nothing at that time, but patiently to wait and get well, for he had a shrewd suspicion that to present himself to Marion under existing circumstances would be, to say the least, injudicious.