Very slowly, a faint trace of colour came back to her cheeks.  Her heavy eyes half opened.  They stared first with a white stare.  Her arms dropped by her side.  Her mouth relaxed its ghastly smile. . . .  We held our breath. . . .  She was coming to again!

But her coming to was slow—­very, very slow.  Her pulse was still weak.  Her heart pumped feebly.  We feared she might sink from inanition at any moment.  Hilda Wade knelt on the floor by the girl’s side and held a spoonful of beef essence coaxingly to her lips.  Number Fourteen gasped, drew a long, slow breath, then gulped and swallowed it.  After that she lay back with her mouth open, looking like a corpse.  Hilda pressed another spoonful of the soft jelly upon her; but the girl waved it away with one trembling hand.  “Let me die,” she cried.  “Let me die!  I feel dead already.”

Hilda held her face close.  “Isabel,” she whispered—­and I recognised in her tone the vast moral difference between “Isabel” and “Number Fourteen,”—­“Is-a-bel, you must take it.  For Arthur’s sake, I say, you must take it.”

The girl’s hand quivered as it lay on the white coverlet.  “For Arthur’s sake!” she murmured, lifting her eyelids dreamily.  “For Arthur’s sake!  Yes, nurse, dear!”

“Call me Hilda, please!  Hilda!”

The girl’s face lighted up again.  “Yes, Hilda, dear,” she answered, in an unearthly voice, like one raised from the dead.  “I will call you what you will.  Angel of light, you have been so good to me.”

She opened her lips with an effort and slowly swallowed another spoonful.  Then she fell back, exhausted.  But her pulse improved within twenty minutes.  I mentioned the matter, with enthusiasm, to Sebastian later.  “It is very nice in its way,” he answered; “but . . . it is not nursing.”

I thought to myself that that was just what it was; but I did not say so.  Sebastian was a man who thought meanly of women.  “A doctor, like a priest,” he used to declare, “should keep himself unmarried.  His bride is medicine.”  And he disliked to see what he called philandering going on in his hospital.  It may have been on that account that I avoided speaking much of Hilda Wade thenceforth before him.

He looked in casually next day to see the patient.  “She will die,” he said, with perfect assurance, as we passed down the ward together.  “Operation has taken too much out of her.”

“Still, she has great recuperative powers,” Hilda answered.  “They all have in her family, Professor.  You may, perhaps, remember Joseph Huntley, who occupied Number Sixty-seven in the Accident Ward, some nine months since—­compound fracture of the arm—­a dark, nervous engineer’s assistant—­very hard to restrain—­well, he was her brother; he caught typhoid fever in the hospital, and you commented at the time on his strange vitality.  Then there was her cousin, again, Ellen Stubbs.  We had her for stubborn chronic laryngitis—­a very bad case—­anyone else would have died—­yielded at once to your treatment; and made, I recollect, a splendid convalescence.”