She adored her beautiful nurse.
The fourth day came: Edward Bowne walked into the cell. "Go out and
breathe the fresh air for an hour or two," he said in the tone more of a
command than a request.
"But the child will never consent," replied Christine sweetly.
"Oh yes, she will: I will stay with her," said the young man, lifting
the feverish little head on his arm and passing his hand softly over the
bright eyes.
"Felipa, do you not want me?" said Christine, bending down.
"He stays: it is all the same," murmured the child.
"So it is. Go, Christine," said Edward with a little smile of triumph.
Without a word Christine left the cell. But she did not go to walk: she
came to my room, and throwing herself on my bed fell in a moment into a
deep sleep, the reaction after her three nights of wakefulness. When she
awoke it was long after dark, and I had relieved Edward in his watch.
"You will have to give it up," he said as our lily came forth at last
with sleep-flushed cheeks and starry eyes shielded from the light. "The
spell is broken: we have all been taking care of Felipa, and she likes
one as well as the other."
Which was not true, in my case at least, since Felipa had openly derided
my small strength when I lifted her, and beat off the sponge with which
I attempted to bathe her hot face. "They" used no sponges, she said,
only their nice cool hands; and she wished "they" would come and take
care of her again.
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