There followed a long silence, as if the thought of sleep had brought it on.  But then the rambling talk began again.

“His hair is red—­red, like mine.  I think that’s why his heart is so warm.  Yet her heart is warm, too, and her hair is almost black.  The other man’s hair was pretty dark, too, and his heart seemed—­well, not exactly cold.  Did he send me some daffodils the other day?  I can’t seem to remember.  It seems as if I had seen some—­pretty things—­lovely, springy things.  Perhaps Mrs.—­the red-headed doctor’s wife—­queer I can’t think of their names—­perhaps she sent them.  It would be like her.”

The nurse’s glance wandered, in the faint light, to where a great jar of daffodils stood upon the farther window sill, their heads nodding faintly in the night breeze.  Jordan King’s card, which had come with them, was tucked away in a drawer near by with two other cards, bearing the same name, which had accompanied other flowers.  Miss Arden doubted if her patient realized who had sent any of them.  Afterward—­if there was to be an afterward—­she would show the cards to her.  Miss Arden, like many other people, knew Jordan King by reputation, for the family was an old and established one in the city, and the early success of the youngest son in a line not often taken up by the sons of such families was noteworthy.  Also he was good to look at, and Miss Arden, experienced nurse though she was and devoted to her profession, had not lost her appreciation of youth and health and good looks in those who were not her patients.

Unexpectedly, at this hour of the night—­it was well toward one o’clock—­the door suddenly opened very quietly and a familiar big figure entered.  Springing up to meet Doctor Burns, Miss Arden showed no surprise.  It was a common thing for this man, summoned to the hospital at unholy hours for some critical case, to take time to look in on another patient not technically in need of him.

The head on the pillow turned at the slight sound beside it.  Two wide eyes stared up at Burns.  “You’ve made a mistake, I think,” said the patient’s voice, politely yet firmly.  “My doctor has red hair.  I know him by that.  Your hair is black.”

“I presume it is, in this light,” responded Burns, sitting down by the bed.  “It’s pretty red, though, by daylight.  In that case will you let me stay a minute?” His fingers pressed the pulse.  Then his hand closed over hers with a quieting touch.  “Since you’re awake,” he said, “you may as well have one extra bath to send you back to sleep.”

The head on the pillow signified unwillingness.  “I’d take one to please my red-headed doctor, but not you.”

“You’d do anything for him, eh?” questioned Burns, his eyes on the chart which the nurse had brought him and upon which she was throwing the light of a small flash.  “Well, you see he wants you to have this bath; he told me so.”

“Very well, then,” she said with a sigh.  “But I don’t like them.  They make me shiver.”