The nurse, noticing the change, came up to him and spoke in a soothing voice.  “Are you feeling better?”

“I think so “said Paul.  “I suppose I’ve been very ill.”

“Very ill,” said the nurse.

“This can’t be a hospital?”

“Oh, no.  It’s the house of some very kind, good friends.  You don’t know them,” she added quickly, seeing him knit a perplexed brow.  “You stumbled into their garden and fainted.  And they’re very anxious for you to get well and strong.”

“Who are they?” asked Paul.

“Colonel and Miss Winwood.  T hey will be so glad to see you better—­at least Miss Winwood will; the Colonel’s not at home.”

She lifted his head gently and smoothed his pillows, and ordained silence.  Presently the doctor came, and spoke kindly.  “You’ve had a narrow shave, my friend, and you’re not out of the wood yet,” said he.  “And you’ll have to go slow and take things for granted for some time.”

Then came Miss Winwood, whom he recognized as the puzzling but pleasant nurse out of uniform.

“I don’t know how to thank you for taking me in, a stranger, like this,” said Paul.

She smiled.  “It’s Providence, not me, that you must thank.  You might have been taken ill by the roadside far away from anybody.  Providence guided you here.”

“Providence or Destiny,” murmured Paul, closing his eyes.  It was absurd to feel so weak.

“That’s a theological question on which we won’t enter,” laughed Miss Winwood.  “Anyhow, thank God, you’re better.”

A little later she came to him again.  “I’ve been so anxious about your people—­you see, we’ve had no means of communicating with them.”

“My people?” asked Paul, surprised.

“Yes.  They must be wondering what has become of you.”

“I have no people,” said Paul.

“No people?  What do you mean?” she asked sharply, for the moment forgetful of the sick room.  She herself had hundreds of relations.  The branches of her family tree were common to half the country families of England.  “Have you no parents—­brothers or sisters—?”

“None that I know of,” said Paul.  “I’m quite alone in the world.”

“Have you no friends to whom I could write about you?”

He shook his head, and his great eyes, all the greater and more lustrous through illness, smiled into hers.  “No.  None that count.  At least—­there are two friends, but I’ve lost sight of them for years.  No—­there’s nobody who would be in the least interested to know.  Please don’t trouble.  I shall be all right.”

Miss Winwood put her cool hand on his forehead and bent over him. 
“You?  You, alone like that?  My poor boy!”

She turned away.  It was almost incredible.  It was monstrously pathetic.  The phenomenon baffled her.  Tears came into her eyes.  She had imagined him the darling of mother and sisters; the gay centre of troops of friends.  And he was alone on the earth.  Who was he?  She turned again.