Nell of Shorne Mills

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!"