As if she had known he would be there, she came
straight to her husband's side, and stood looking down at him with
her heart in her eyes.
He looked almost like a big boy, lying there with one arm under his head,
the heavy lashes marking the line of the closed eyes, the face unbent
from the tenser moulding of waking hours, the whole strong body relaxed
into an attitude of careless ease. Even as she looked, though she had
made scarcely a breath of noise, his eyes unclosed. He was the lightest
of sleepers, even when worn out with work. He lay staring up at her for a
minute while she smiled down at him, then he held out his arms.
"He's passed the danger point," he exulted, and he took hold of the two
long plaits and wound them about her head. Then he sat up and began
deliberately to unbraid her hair, while she submitted laughing.
"At two this morning he had a bad turn," said he, his fingers having
their way with the dusky locks. "The nurse gave him Van Horn's drugs,--he
grew worse. I rose up and took charge." He laughed at the thought. "We
had things doing there that would have made Van's hair curl. Everybody's
hair curled but mine. Mine stood up straight. I waved my arms like a
semaphore. I said _'Do this!'_ and they did it. I sent every one of Van's
emergency orders to thunder and tried my own.
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