“What is it?”

“Concussion!” The stillness of that blue-clothed figure, so calm beside her, gave her strength to say quietly: 

“Put him in my room, Aunt Kirsteen; there’s more air there!” And she flew up-stairs, flinging wide her door, making the bed ready, snatching her night things from the pillow; pouring out cold water, sprinkling the air with eau de cologne.  Then she stood still.  Perhaps, they would not bring him there?  Yes, they were coming up.  They brought him in, and laid him on the bed.  She heard one say:  “Doctor’ll be here directly, ma’am.  Let him lie quiet.”  Then she and his mother were alone beside him.

“Undo his boots,” said Kirsteen.

Nedda’s fingers trembled, and she hated them for fumbling so, while she drew off those muddy boots.  Then her aunt said softly:  “Hold him up, dear, while I get his things off.”

And, with a strange rapture that she was allowed to hold him thus, she supported him against her breast till he was freed and lying back inert.  Then, and only then, she whispered: 

“How long before he—?”

Kirsteen shook her head; and, slipping her arm round the girl, murmured:  “Courage, Nedda!”

The girl felt fear and love rush up desperately to overwhelm her.  She choked them back, and said quite quietly:  “I will.  I promise.  Only let me help nurse him!”

Kirsteen nodded.  And they sat down to wait.

That quarter of an hour was the longest of her life.  To see him thus, living, yet not living, with the spirit driven from him by a cruel blow, perhaps never to come back!  Curious, how things still got themselves noticed when all her faculties were centred in gazing at his face.  She knew that it was raining again; heard the swish and drip, and smelled the cool wet perfume through the scent of the eau de cologne that she had spilled.  She noted her aunt’s arm, as it hovered, wetting the bandage; the veins and rounded whiteness from under the loose blue sleeve slipped up to the elbow.  One of his feet lay close to her at the bed’s edge; she stole her hand beneath the sheet.  That foot felt very cold, and she grasped it tight.  If only she could pass life into him through her hot hand.  She heard the ticking of her little travelling-clock, and was conscious of flies wheeling close up beneath the white ceiling, of how one by one they darted at each other, making swift zigzags in the air.  And something in her she had not yet known came welling up, softening her eyes, her face, even the very pose of her young body—­the hidden passion of a motherliness, that yearned so to ‘kiss the place,’ to make him well, to nurse and tend, restore and comfort him.  And with all her might she watched the movements of those rounded arms under the blue sleeves—­how firm and exact they were, how soft and quiet and swift, bathing the dark head!  Then from beneath the bandage she caught sight suddenly of his eyes.  And her heart turned sick.  Oh, they were not quite closed!  As if he hadn’t life enough to close them!  She bit into her lip to stop a cry.  It was so terrible to see them without light.  Why did not that doctor come?  Over and over and over again within her the prayer turned:  Let him live!  Oh, let him live!