Bridget drew closer.

‘George!’ she whispered.

No answer.  The man’s eyes were closed again.  He seemed to be asleep.  Bridget looked at his hand—­intently.  Then she touched it.

The heavy blue-veined eyelids rose again, as though at the only summons the brain understood.  Bridget bent forward.  What colour there had been in it before ebbed from her sallow face; her lips grew white.  The eyes of the man in the bed met hers—­first mechanically—­without any sign of consciousness; then—­was it imagination?—­or was there a sudden change of expression—­a quick trouble—­a flickering of the lids?  Bridget shook through every limb.  If he recognised her, if the sight of her brought memory back—­even a gleam of it—­there was an end of everything, of course.  She had only to go to the nearest telegraph office and send for Nelly.

But the momentary stimulus passed as she looked—­the eyes grew vacant again—­the lids fell.  Bridget drew a long breath.  She raised herself and moved her chair farther away.

Time passed.  The window behind her was open, and the sun came in, and stole over the bed.  The sick man scarcely moved at all.  There was complete silence, except for the tread of persons in the corridor outside, and certain distant sounds of musketry and bomb practice from the military camp half a mile away.

He was dying—­the man in the bed.  That was plain.  Bridget knew the look of mortal illness.  It couldn’t be long.

She sat there nearly an hour—­thinking.  At the end of that time she rang the hand-bell near her.

Sister Agnes appeared at once.  Bridget had risen and confronted her.

‘Well,’ said the Sister eagerly.  But the visitor’s irresponsive look quenched her hopes at once.

‘I see nothing at all that reminds me of my brother-in-law,’ said Bridget with emphasis.  ’I am very sorry—­but I cannot identify this person as George Sarratt.’

The Sister’s face fell.

‘You don’t even see the general likeness Dr. Howson thought he saw?’

Bridget turned back with her towards the bed.

‘I see what Dr. Howson meant,’ she said, slowly.  ’But there is no real likeness.  My brother-in-law’s face was much longer.  His mouth was quite different.  And his eyes were brown.’

‘Did you see the eyes again?  Did he look at you?’

‘Yes.’

‘And there was no sign of recognition?’

‘No.’

‘Poor dear fellow!’ said the Sister, stooping over him again.  There was a profound and yearning pity in the gesture.  ’I wish we could have kept him more alive—­more awake—­for you, to see.  But there had to be morphia this morning.  He had a dreadful night.  Are you quite sure?  Wouldn’t you like to come back this afternoon, and watch him again?  Sometimes a second time—­Oh, and what of the hands?—­did you notice them?’ And suddenly remembering Dr. Howson’s words, the Sister pointed to the long, bloodless fingers lying on the sheet, and to the marked deformity in each little finger.