The ward surgeon, entering, started at the sight of the beautiful face on the narrow pillow. Instantly the scene of two years before renewed its living colors on the sensitive film of memory. He even recalled the name of the woman before him, so deeply had that scene and her beauty impressed him.
“It is Madame Kanaris,” he said.
The patient opened her dark blue eyes.
“I am Mrs. Prince,” she corrected; “I wish to send a telegram to New York at once.”
She turned white; fainted again. The broken bones were attended to with expedition.
Before night the telegram was sent. There had been some delay of letters, some misunderstanding that had sent Mrs. Prince to B⸺ by mistake.
That lady’s brilliant eyes examined her surroundings.
“I am in the ⸺ Hospital, in the Prince Ward?” she said presently.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Waxe, disturbed by the coincidence of names.
“I selected the fittings and furniture for it,” Mrs. Prince went on softly. “But I did not think, at the time, of myself.” She looked at the picture above the bed.