She was silent at first. She was a prudent woman; she thought before she spoke.
“Poor fellow!” she said, suddenly. Her clear blue eyes overflowed. She held out her hand, lifted his, wrung it, dropped it, and softly added, “Well, never mind!” much as if he had been a child or a patient,—much as he himself had said, “Never mind!” to Scip.
Then Zerviah Hope broke down.
“I haven’t got a murderer’s heart!” he cried. “It has been taken away from me. I ain’t so bad—now. I meant to be—I wanted to do—”
“Hush!” she said. “You have, and you shall. God is fair.”
“Yes,” said the penitent convict, in a dull voice, “God is fair, and so he let ’em tell of me. I’ve got no fault to find with Him. So nigh as I can understand Almighty God, He means well.... I guess He’ll pull me through some way.... But I wish Scip hadn’t told just now. I can’t help being sorry. It wasn’t that I wanted to cheat, but”—he choked—“the sick folks used to like me. Now, do you think I’d ought to go on nursing, Doctor? Do you think I’d ought to stop?”
“You are already an hour late,” replied the woman of science, in her usual business-like voice. “Your substitute will be sleepy and restless; that affects the patient. Go back to your work as fast as you can. Ask me no more foolish questions.”
She drew her veil; there was unprofessional moisture on her long, feminine lashes. She held out her hearty hand-grasp to him, touched the tackey, and galloped away.
“She is a good woman,” said Zerviah, half aloud, looking down at his cold fingers. “She touched me, and she knew! Lord, I should like to have you bless her!”
He looked after her. She sat her horse finely; her gray veil drifted in the hot wind. His sensitive color came. He watched her as if he had known that he should never see her again on earth.