Hilda took his praise with downcast eyes.  Her manner with the Doctor when others were present was professionally deferential.  It was only when they were alone that the nurse was submerged in the woman.

With her bonnet off and a white cap in its place, she moved about the room.  “I shall be very comfortable,” she said, when Derry inquired if anything could be done for her.

“We haven’t any women about the place but Cook,” he explained.  “She has been in our family forever—­”

“I’ll put a day nurse on tomorrow,” the Doctor said, “but I want Hilda with him at night; she can call me up if there’s any change, and I’ll come right over.”

When the Doctor had gone, Derry, seeking his room, found Muffin waiting.  Bronson bustled in to see that his young master got out of his wet clothes and into a hot bath.  “All the time the Doctor was talking to you, I was worrying about your shoes.  Your feet are soaked, sir.  Whatever made you walk in the rain?”

“I couldn’t ride—­I couldn’t.”

The old man on his knees removing the wet shoes looked up.  “Restless, sir?”

“Yes.  There are times, Bronson, when I want my mother.”

He could say it in this room to Bronson and Muffin—­to the gray old dog and the gray old man who adored him.

Bronson put him to bed, settled Muffin among his blankets in a basket by the hot water pipes, opened the windows wide, said “God bless you,” and went away.

“Sweet dreams, Muffin,” said Derry from the big bed.

The old dog whuffed discreetly.

It was their nightly ceremony.

The sleet came down in golden streaks against the glow of the street lights.  Derry lay watching it, and it was a long time before he slept.  Not since his mother’s death had he been so weighed down with heaviness.

He kept seeing Jean with her head up, declining to dance with him; on the high stool at the confectioner’s, her eyes cold above her chocolate; the English Captain and his contemptuous stare; Alma, basely excusing him; Drusilla, in her red and blue and white—­singing—!

He waked in the morning with a sore throat.  Young Martin came in to light the fire and draw the water for his bath.  Later Bronson brought his breakfast and the mail.

“You’d better stay in bed, Mr. Derry.”

“I think I shall.  How is Dad?”

“The nurse says he is holding his own.”

“I am glad of that.”

Bronson, feeding warm milk and toast to Muffin, ventured an opinion, “I am not sure that I like the nurse, sir.”

“Why not?”

“She’s not exactly a lady, and she’s not exactly a nurse.”

“I see.”  Derry, having glanced over a letter or two, had picked up an envelope with embossed thistles on the flap.  “But she is rather pretty, Bronson.”

“Pretty is as pretty does,” sententiously.

Silence.  Bronson looked across at the young man propped up among the pillows.  He was rereading the letter with the thistles on the flap.  The strained look had gone out of his eyes, and his lips were smiling.