"Nothin'",—chewing her lips and opening the door. "It's ten years since,"—to herself, as she went in.
Not when she was a shy girl had he been to her what these ten years of desertion had made him.
It was half an hour before the Doctor and Andy went up softly into the upper room and sat quietly down out of sight in the corner. Jane was sitting on the low cot-bed, holding Starke's head on her breast. They could not see her face in the feeble light. She had some brandy and water in a glass, and gave him a spoonful of it now and then; and when she had done that, smoothed the yellow face incessantly with her hard fingers. The Doctor fancied that such dumb pain and affection as there was in even that little action ought to bring him to life, if he were dead. There was some color on his cheeks, and occasionally he opened his eyes and tried to speak, but closed them wearily. They watched by him until midnight; his pulse grew stronger by that time, and he lay wistfully looking at his wife like one who had wakened out of a long death, and tried to collect his thought. She did not speak nor stir, knowing on how slight a thread his sense hung.
"Jane!" he said, at last.
They bent forward eagerly.
"Jane, I wish thee'd take me home."'
"To be sure, Joseph," cheerfully. "In the morning. It is too chilly to-night. Is thee comfortable?" drawing his head closer to her breast. "O God! He'll live!" silently clutching at the bed-rail until her hand ached. "Go to sleep, dear."
Whatever sobs or tears choked her voice just then, she forced them back: they might disturb him. He closed his eyes a moment.
"I have something to say to thee, Jane."
"No. Thee must rest."