“So you were spinning,” he said. His voice was very weak, but how different from those tones of dreadful clearness, of hoarse muttering, with which she had been so sadly familiar.
Pomona knelt beside him and put her hand on his forehead, on his wrist.
“Thank God!” she said.
“By all means,” he answered, peering at her amusedly. “Natheless, why?”
“Nay, you must not speak,” she bade him, and rose to pour the soup into a bowl.
He watched her while she stirred and tasted and added salt. He was smiling. When she lifted him, pillows and all, propped against her strong arm, and held the bowl to his lips at a compelling angle, he laughed outright. It was rather a feeble thing in the way of laughs, but to Pomona it was as wonderful and beautiful an achievement as a child’s first word in the mother’s ear.
“Drink,” she said, firmly, while her heart throbbed in joy.
“Now you must sleep,” she added, as she settled him with extraordinary art. But sleep was far away from those curious wandering eyes.
“Bring the light closer and come to the bed again.”
His voice had gained strength from Pomona’s fine broth, and it rang in command. Without another word she obeyed him. As she sat down on the little oaken stool, where he could see her, the light fell on her face, and from behind her the fire shot ruddily in her crown of hair.