“You must have that picture taken down for me, Mrs. Waxe. I do not like to have anything ‘hanging over me,’ even if it is the counterfeit presentment of a saint.”
An ugly sneer disfigured her delicate lips for a moment.
“I will have it taken down as soon as possible,” said the head nurse; “but it cannot be done immediately, my dear. We have sent out all the nurses we can spare, and extra beds have been put in nearly every ward. I am too heavy to risk myself on a ladder, but I will see the superintendent about it after a bit. It is well fastened up, I assure you.”
Towards night, not hearing from Mr. Prince, madame grew nervous, then feverish.
In a sick-bed for the first time in her life, strapped immovably to its narrow confines, her head beginning to throb with agony, she lay suffocating with impatience, suspense, and apprehension, she,—the spoiled darling of every good fortune.
The raging storm shrieked unceasingly about the House of Pain like a legion of infernal spirits.
There were so many others more critically ill than herself, and the number of nurses was so reduced, that she was of necessity left alone much of the time.
Just before midnight Mrs. Waxe came in, weary, but the embodiment of strength and kindness.
“I think,” she said coaxingly, “you must try and get to sleep. I shall give you something to quiet you, and then turn off the light, and I hope you will soon drop off. I shall be near you in the corridor. If you want anything just tinkle the bell. Close to hand, you see, my dear.”