Wednesday afternoon the crisis seemed to have passed.  That whole evening he was himself, and I—­I was almost delirious from sheer joy.  To hear his dear voice again just talking naturally!  He noticed the nurse for the first time.  He was jovial—­happy.  “I am going to get some fun out of this now!” he smiled.  “And oh, won’t we have a time, my girl, while I am convalescing!” And we planned the rosiest weeks any one ever planned.  Thursday the nurse shaved him—­he not only joked and talked like his dear old self—­he looked it as well. (All along he had been cheerful—­always told the doctor he was “feeling fine”; never complained of anything.  It amused the doctor so one morning, when he was leaning over listening to Carl’s heart and lungs, as he lay in more or less of a doze and partial delirium.  A twinkle suddenly came into Carl’s eye.  “You sprung a new necktie on me this morning, didn’t you?” Sure enough, it was new.)

Thursday morning the nurse was preparing things for his bath in another room and I was with Carl.  The sun was streaming in through the windows and my heart was too contented for words.  He said:  “Do you know what I’ve been thinking of so much this morning?  I’ve been thinking of what it must be to go through a terrible illness and not have some one you loved desperately around.  I say to myself all the while:  ’Just think, my girl was here all the time—­my girl will be here all the time!’ I’ve lain here this morning and wondered more than ever what good angel was hovering over me the day I met you.”

I put this in because it is practically the last thing he said before delirium came on again, and I love to think of it.  He said really more than that.

In the morning he would start calling for me early—­the nurse would try to soothe him for a while, then would call me.  I wanted to be in his room at night, but they would not let me—­there was an unborn life to be thought of those days, too.  As soon as I reached his bed, he would clasp my hand and hold it oh, so tight.  “I’ve been groping for you all night—­all night!  Why don’t they let me find you?” Then, in a moment, he would not know I was there.  Daytimes I had not left him five minutes, except for my meals.  Several nights they had finally let me be by him, anyway.  Saturday morning for the first time since the crisis the doctor was encouraged.  “Things are really looking up,” and “You go out for a few moments in the sun!”

I walked a few blocks to the Mudgetts’ in our department, to tell them the good news, and then back; but my heart sank to its depths again as soon as I entered Carl’s room.  The delirium always affected me that way:  to see the vacant stare in his eyes—­no look of recognition when I entered.

The nurse went out that afternoon.  “He’s doing nicely,” was the last thing she said.  She had not been gone half an hour—­it was just two-fifteen—­and I was lying on her bed watching Carl, when he called, “Buddie, I’m going—­come hold my hand.”  O my God—­I dashed for him, I clung to him, I told him he could not, must not go—­we needed him too terribly, we loved him too much to spare him.  I felt so sure of it, that I said:  “Why, my love is enough to keep you here!”