When Camilla had read Pearl’s letter to Mr. and Mrs. Francis, the latter was all emotion.  How splendid of her, so sympathetic, so full of the true inwardness of Christian love, and the sweet message of the poppy, the emblem of sleep, so prophetic of that other sleep that knows no waking!  Is it not a pagan thought, that?  What tender recollections they will bring the poor sufferer of her far away, happy childhood home!

Mrs. Francis’s face was shining with emotion as she spoke.  Then she became dreamy.

“I wonder is her soul attune to the melodies of life, and will she feel the love vibrations of the ether?”

Mr. Francis had noiselessly left the room when Camilla had finished her rapid explanation.  He returned with his little valise in his hand.

He stood a moment irresolutely looking, in his helpless dumb way, at his wife, who was so beautifully expounding the message of the flowers.

Camilla handed him the box.  She understood.

Mrs. Francis noticed the valise in her husband’s hand.

“How very suddenly you make up your mind, James,” she said.  “Are you actually going away on the train to-night?  Really James, I believe I shall write a little sketch for our church paper.  Pearl’s thoughtfulness has moved me, James.  It really has touched me deeply.  If you were not so engrossed in business, James, I really believe it would move you; but men are so different from us, Camilla.  They are not so soulful.  Perhaps it is just as well, but really sometimes, James, I fear you give business too large a place in your life.  It is all business, business, business.”

Mrs. Francis opened her desk, and drawing toward her her gold pen and dainty letter paper, began her article.

Camilla followed Mr. Francis into the hall, and helped him to put on his overcoat.  She handed him his hat with something like reverence in her manner.

“You are upon the King’s business to-night,” she said, with shining eyes, as she opened the door for him.

He opened his mouth as if to speak, but only waved his hand with an impatient gesture and was gone.

CHAPTER XVI HOW POLLY WENT HOME

“We’ll have to move poor Polly, if she lives thro’ the night,” the nurse said to the house doctor in the hospital that night.  “She is making all the patients homesick.  To hear her calling for her mother or for ’someone from ‘ome’ is hard on the sick and well.”

“What are her chances do you think?” the doctor asked gravely.

He was a wiry little man with a face like leather, but his touch brought healing and his presence, hope.

“She is dying of homesickness as well as typhoid,” the nurse said sadly, “and she seems so anxious to get better, poor thing!  She often says ’I can’t die miss, for what’ll happen mother.’  But for the last two days, in her delirium, she seems to be worrying more about her work and her flowers.  I think they were pretty hard people she lived with.  ‘Surely she’ll praise me this time,’ she often says, ’I’ve tried my ‘ardest.’  The strenuous life has been too much for poor Polly.  Listen to her now!”