“I shall never forgive myself,” he said:  “the little thing has fallen and injured her foot badly, I fear.”

“I do not care at all,” said Felipa:  “I like to have it hurt.  It is my foot, isn’t it?”

These remarks she threw at me defiantly, as though I had laid claim to the member in question.  I could not help laughing.

“The other lady will not laugh,” said the child proudly.  And in truth Christine, most unexpectedly, took up the role of nurse.  She carried Felipa to her own room—­for we each had a little cell opening out of the main apartment—­and as white-robed Charity she shone with new radiance.  “Shone” is the proper word, for through the open door of the dim cell, with the dark little face of Felipa on her shoulder, her white robe and skin seemed fairly to shine, as white lilies shine on a dark night.  The old grandmother left the child in our care and watched our proceedings wistfully, very much as a dog watches the human hands that extract the thorn from the swollen foot of her puppy.  She was grateful and asked no questions; in fact, thought was not one of her mental processes.  She did not think much:  she only felt.  As for Felipa, the child lived in rapture during those days in spite of her suffering.  She scarcely slept at all—­she was too happy:  I heard her voice rippling on through the night, and Christine’s low replies.  She adored her beautiful nurse.

The fourth day came:  Edward Bowne walked into the cell.  “Go out and breathe the fresh air for an hour or two,” he said in the tone more of a command than a request.

“But the child will never consent,” replied Christine sweetly.

“Oh yes, she will:  I will stay with her,” said the young man, lifting the feverish little head on his arm and passing his hand softly over the bright eyes.

“Felipa, do you not want me?” said Christine, bending down.

“He stays:  it is all the same,” murmured the child.

“So it is.  Go, Christine,” said Edward with a little smile of triumph.

Without a word Christine left the cell.  But she did not go to walk:  she came to my room, and throwing herself on my bed fell in a moment into a deep sleep, the reaction after her three nights of wakefulness.  When she awoke it was long after dark, and I had relieved Edward in his watch.

“You will have to give it up,” he said as our lily came forth at last with sleep-flushed cheeks and starry eyes shielded from the light.  “The spell is broken:  we have all been taking care of Felipa, and she likes one as well as the other.”

Which was not true, in my case at least, since Felipa had openly derided my small strength when I lifted her, and beat off the sponge with which I attempted to bathe her hot face.  “They” used no sponges, she said, only their nice cool hands; and she wished “they” would come and take care of her again.  But Christine had resigned in toto.  If Felipa did not prefer her to all others, then Felipa could not have her:  she was not a common nurse.  And indeed she was not.  Her fair beauty, ideal grace, cooing voice and the strength of her long arms and flexible hands were like magic to the sick, and—­distraction to the well; the well in this case being Edward Bowne looking in at the door.