When Christian saw her husband, she stirred, and put up a linger far silence, Dr. Grey crossed the room, trying hard to make his step light and noiseless, but piteously failing in the attempt.  Still Arthur was not disturbed.

“He sleeps sound, Christian.  Does he suffer very much, do you think?”

“Not now.”

“Will he ever recover?”

“I hope so.  Oh, please God, I trust so!  Dr. Anstruther said there was no reason why he should not.”

“And you—­you think so too?” with a touching appeal.

“Yes, I do think so”

Dr. Grey seemed relieved.  In a kind of helpless, childlike way, he stood behind her and watched all she did for the child, who waked thirsty, and cried and moaned, but by-and—­by was soothed to sleep again.

His father shuddered as he gazed upon him.

“He looks as if he were dead—­my poor boy!”

“You must not look at him, You must go to bed,” said Christian, with a gentle authority.

“Presently.  And you—­are you not afraid to sit up here alone?”

“Oh no.”

“You never seem to be afraid of any thing.”

“Not of much—­I have gone through such a deal” said Christian, with a faint smile.  “But, papa, indeed you must go to bed.”

Nevertheless, they stood a little longer looking down upon Arthur, whose breathing grew softer into natural sleep.  Then, with a mutual impulse given by the unity of a common grief the husband and wife turned and kissed one another.

“God bless you, my darling, my poor children’s mother, the first they ever—­”

He stopped, and never finished the sentence.

Chapter 6

    "Love that asketh love again,
     Finds the barter naught but pain;
     Love that giveth in full store,
     Aye receives as much, and more.

    "Love, exacting nothing back,
     Never knoweth any lack;
     Love, compelling love to pay,
     Sees him bankrupt every day."

LIFE in the sick-room—­most of us know what that is; how the whole world narrows itself within four walls, and every fanciful grief and morbid imagining slips off, pressed down into nothingness by the weight of daily, hourly cares, and commonplace, yet all-engrossing realities.

Christian was a born nurse—­and nurses, like poets, are born, not made.  You may recognize the faculty in the little girl of ten years old, as she steals into your room to bring you your breakfast, and takes the opportunity to arrange your pillow, and put your drawers in order, and do any other little helpful office which you may need; and you miss it painfully in the matron of sixty, who, with perhaps the kindest intentions, comes to nurse you, taking for granted that she is the best person you could possibly have about you; and yet you would be thankful to shut the door upon her, and struggle, suffer, die alone; as Arthur, child as he was, would rather have died than suffer near his sick-bed either of his two aunts.