At last, with an impatient movement, with a blush of shame for the way
in which her mind was dwelling on him, she left the window and fell on
her knees at the narrow bed to say her prayers.
But his personality intruded even on her devotions, and, half
unconsciously, she added to her simple formula a supplication for his
recovery.
Then she got into bed and fell asleep. But in a very little while she
started awake, seeing the horse shy and fall, feeling the man's head
upon her lap. She sat up and listened. His room was beneath hers--the
cottage was built in the usual thin and unsubstantial fashion--and every
sound from the room below rose to hers. She heard him moan; once, twice;
then his voice, thick and husky, called for water.
She listened. The faint cry rose again and again. She could not endure
it, and she got out of bed, put on her dressing gown, and slipped down
the stairs. She could hear the voice more plainly now, and the cry was
still, "Water! water!"
She opened the door, and, pausing a moment, her face crimson, stole
toward the bed. Molly was in her chair, with her head lolling over the
back, as if it were a guillotine, her huge mouth wide open, fast asleep.
Nell stood and looked down at the unconscious man. The dark-brown hair
was tangled, the white face drawn with pain, the lips dry with fever,
one hand, clenched, opening and shutting spasmodically, on the
counterpane.
That divine pity which only a woman can feel filled and overran her
heart. She poured some water into a glass and set it to his lips. He
could not drink lying down, and, with difficulty, she raised his head on
her bosom. He drank long and greedily; then, as she slowly--dare one
write "reluctantly"?--lowered his head to the pillow, he muttered: "Thanks, thanks, Luce! That was good!"