Blind Love

The nurse turned from the bed, however, attracted by the half-open door

of the cupboard. Here were the medicine bottles. She took them out one

by one, looked at them with professional curiosity, pulled out the

corks, smelt the contents, replaced the bottles. Then she went to the

window, which stood open; she stepped out upon the stone steps which

led into the garden, looking about her, to breathe the soft air of noon

among the flowers.

She came back, and it again seemed as if she would examine the bed, but

her attention was attracted by a small book-case. She began to pull

down the books one after the other and to turn them over, as a

half-educated person does, in the hope of finding something amusing.

She found a book with pictures. Then she sat down in the armchair

beside the sofa and began to turn over the leaves slowly. How long was

this going to last?

It lasted about half an hour. The nurse laid down the volume with a

yawn, stretched herself, yawned again, crossed her hands, and closed

her eyes. She was going to sleep. If she would only fall so fast asleep

that the woman behind the curtain could creep away!

But sometimes at the sleepiest moment sleep is driven away by an

accident. The accident in this case was that the nurse before finally

dropping off remembered that she was nursing a sick man, and sat up to

look at him before she allowed herself to drop off.

Stung with sudden inspiration she sprang to her feet and bent over the

man. "Does he breathe?" she asked. She bent lower. "His pulse! does it

beat?" she caught his wrist.

"Doctor!" she shrieked, running into the garden. "Doctor! Come--come

quick! He is dead!"

Fanny Mere stepped from her hiding-place and ran out of the back door,

and by the garden gate into the road.

She had escaped. She had seen the crime committed. She knew now at

least what was intended and why she was sent away. The motive for the

crime she could not guess.