He
was himself again directly, and lay contentedly looking up at her as
she fed him with hot soup, longing to talk, but refusing to listen
to a word till he was refreshed.
"That's very nice," he said gratefully, as he finished, adding with
a pathetic sort of gayety, as he groped about with his one hand: "I
don't expect napkins, but I should like a handkerchief. They took my
coat off when they did my arm, and the gentleman who kindly lent me
this doesn't seem to have possessed such an article."
Christie wiped his lips with the clean towel at her side, and smiled
as she did it, at the idea of Mr. Fletcher's praising burnt soup,
and her feeding him like a baby out of a tin cup.
"I think it would comfort you if I washed your face: can you bear to
have it done?" she asked.
"If you can bear to do it," he answered, with an apologetic look,
evidently troubled at receiving such services from her.
Yet as her hands moved gently about his face, he shut his eyes, and
there was a little quiver of the lips now and then, as if he was
remembering a time when he had hoped to have her near him in a
tenderer capacity than that of nurse. She guessed the thought, and
tried to banish it by saying cheerfully as she finished:
"There, you look more like yourself after that.
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