A sweet-faced young girl was sitting at the side of the snowy draped bed, watching the pale face on the pillows. So intent was she that she never turned her head at the entrance of the new comers, thinking it was her sister alone that was returning. The light brown hair was a struggling mass of curls that, although brushed and combed, constantly escaped from their confinement. The face was almost colorless, the brow rather low, and the eyes a deep, dark gray. Tender, loving, with a full share of animal spirits, Hilda Wallace was loved wherever she went. Not quite so beautiful as the elder sister, Edith, she was just as attractive in her way.
In the one quick glance Imelda gave her she understood her fully. Before the watcher and obstructing the view, stood the doctor with the forefinger of his right hand resting upon the wrist of the girl’s left and uninjured hand. With his left hand holding his watch he was counting the pulse beats. At the foot of the bed stood a woman of about forty years, apparently the housekeeper. Her eyes were bent as intently upon the quiet form as those of the others in the room. Edith stepped up to her and for a few moments whispered in her ear. Nodding assent and softly tiptoeing the housekeeper slipped from the room. Edith gently moved around to the other side of the bed and bending over the sufferer listened to the almost imperceptible breathing.
“How is she, doctor? Do you apprehend any danger?”
The man of science shook his head. “Not immediately,” he said, “but she will require careful nursing. She has an ugly cut upon the head and we will have to prevent inflammation or brain fever may set in. It is important to keep her head cool. Do not forget to change the ice bandage every few minutes. The broken arm is nothing serious in itself and will soon be all right, but it may add to the fever the first two or three days. She ought to have been taken to a hospital instantly. I am afraid it may be some time now before she can be removed.”
“That is not to be considered,” said Edith. “We have room enough and also willing hands that it will do good to get some practice in the art of relieving pain, and if it should prove necessary we can call in the help of a professional nurse. But I wish I knew who she is. I am sure her friends must be very anxious about her.”
The doctor merely nodded his head in a grave manner, giving vent to some very expressive grunts. “Very well,” he said, “very well; if you are so willing I am sure I am more than satisfied. I know I can trust the patient in your hands, Miss Wallace. You and your sister are a host in yourselves; so in your care I leave her. My part of the work being done for the present I will now go. Should there be an undesirable change, let me know;” and with a few more general instructions he bowed himself out. Edith would have followed but he prevented her from doing so.
“No; I can find the way myself while your place is here—and—good evening, ladies,”—and he was gone.
Until now Hilda had not spoken a word. Her whole attention was directed to the care of the sick girl, every few moments lifting the cloths from her head and replacing them with others taken from a vessel of ice standing by the bedside. All this time the sufferer never spoke, never moved. Imelda could not see her face as it was turned partly away, and partly concealed in a deep shadow. Edith now spoke.
“Hilda, do you see this lady?” whereupon the girl’s head quickly turned.
“O, I did not know that there was anyone here,” she said in tones of liquid music. Hastily turning to Imelda, “I beg your pardon”—then to Edith. “Whom did you say? I don’t understand.”