back to bed," she agreed, as if she was
humoring a child. "You wouldn't sleep there----"

"I haven't slept for two nights," he pleaded, in excuse for himself,
"not since----"

Taking him by the arm she led him into the library, which was in an
ell behind the back drawing-room. It was a big, book-lined room with
worn, shiny, leather-covered furnishings. On the shiny,
leather-covered couch was a cushion which she shook up and smoothed
out. Over its foot lay an afghan the work of the late Mrs. Allerton.

"Now, lay down."

He stretched himself out obediently, after which she covered him with
the afghan. When he had closed his eyes she passed her hand across his
forehead, on which the perspiration was still thick and cold. She
remembered that a bottle of Florida water and a paper fan were among
the luxuries of the back spare room.

"Don't you stir," she warned him. "I'm goin' to get you something."

Absorbed in her tasks as nurse she forgot to make the sentimental
reflections in which she would otherwise have indulged. Back to the
room from which she had fled she hurried with no thought that she was
doing so. From the grave of hope she disinterred a half dozen of the
spider-web handkerchiefs to which a few hours previously she had bid a
touching adieu. With handkerchiefs, fan, and Florida water, she flew
back to her patient, who opened his eyes as she approached.

"I don't want to be fussed over----" he was beginning, fretfully.

"Lie still," she commanded. "I know what to do. I'm used to people who
are sick--up here."

"Up here" was plainly the forehead which she mopped softly with a
specimen from Margot's Parisian consignment. He closed his eyes. His
features relaxed to an expression of relief. Relief gave place to
repose when he felt her hand with the cool scented essence on his
brow. It passed and passed again, lightly, soothingly, consolingly.
Drowsily he thought that it was Barbara's hand, but a Barbara somehow
transformed, and grown tenderer.

He was asleep. She sat fanning him till a feeble daylight through an
uncurtained window warned her to switch off the electricity. Coming
back to her place, she continued to fan him, quietly and deftly, with
no more than a motion of the wrist. She had the nurse's wrist,
slender, flexible; the nurse's hand, strong, shapely, with practical
spatulated finger-tips. After all, he was in some degree the drowning
unconscious prince, and she the little mermaid.

"He'll be a