Then he had slept, and had waked to find the day nurse on duty. He
felt that he should be glad never to see Hilda again. He dreaded the
night when he must once more speak to her.
He was very tired sitting there in his chair. The rug had slipped from
his knees. He tried to reach for it and failed. But he did not want
to call the day nurse. He wanted some one with him who--cared. He
raised his poor old eyes to the lady in the picture. He was cold and
tired.
He wished that Bronson would come back--good old Bronson, to pull up
the rug. He wished that Derry might come.
A door below opened and shut. Some one was ascending the stairs. Some
one who walked with a light step--some one slim and youthful, in a
white gown--!
"Edith--?"
But Edith's hair had not been crinkled and copper-colored, and Edith
would have come straight up to him; she would not have hesitated on the
top step as if afraid to advance.
"Who are you?"
"Jean--"
"Jean?"
"Derry's wife."
"Come here." He tried to reach out his hand to her, but could not.
His tongue felt thick--.
She knelt beside his chair. Her head was bare.
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