It had been the third consecutive night
which he had spent at the bedside of the patient who would not let him
go,--the patient who, every time his weary eyes lifted, during the long
stretches of the night, wanted to rest them upon a halo of coppery red
hair against the low-burning light. The sick man had learned what it
meant to feel now and then, in a moment of torture, the pressure of a
kind, big hand upon his, and to hear the sound of a quiet, reassuring
voice--_"Steady--steady--better in a minute!"_
As he entered his office his eyes were heavy with his vigils, but his
heart was very light. He looked at a certain old leather chair, into
which he had often sunk when he came in at untimely hours, too weary
to take another step toward bed. But now he passed it by and noiselessly
crossed the hall into the living-room, where stood the roomy and
luxurious couch which Ellen had provided with special thought of hours
like these.
He softly opened the windows, to let in the morning breeze and the
bird-songs of the early risers outside, then threw himself upon the
couch, and almost instantly was sound asleep.
Two hours later, before the household was astir, Ellen came down. She was
in flowing, lacy garments, her hair in freshly braided plaits hanging
over her shoulders, her eyes clear and bright with the invigoration of
the night's rest.
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