ture and
the arrival of the new nurse.

When Sophy had faltered that she did not know how to give a hypodermic
injection, Anne had exclaimed almost impatiently: "Oh, he can do that,
himself--only too well! All you've got to do is to clean it thoroughly
the way I've showed you, each time afterwards. I don't want Gaynor to
begin it, because one at a time is enough in such things, and _you_ are
the one to leave in charge. You've got character--grit." She looked at
Sophy impartially out of her shrewd, black eyes. "I don't believe you
know, yourself, _how_ much character you _have_ got," she said. "You're
too young and beautiful to have had much chance yet--but this is forming
you. Forgive my Bush-girl bluntness--but there's no better
character-maker than a husband one's trying to save from morphia. You'll
come out of it a sort of soldier-saint. Mark my words: _Happiness_ is
_mush_," said the little nurse, running her words together in her
excitement. "One can't get strong on mush. Now life's feeding you
meat--a bit raw and bloody, maybe--but it'll build up brawn--soul-brawn.
I'm mixing things; but you understand, I know. And, my word! Just think,
Mrs. Chesney: if a woman forgets her travail for joy that a man is born
into the world, what must she feel when a man--_her_ man--is reborn
through her pangs! Forgive me--I'm being too free. But you're so
rare--oh, I've watched you, same as I've watched him! And I want you to
win out--I _lust_ for it--for you to win out with him. You'll feel
you've got the world in a sling then--I give you my word you will, Mrs.
Chesney. Only keep a stiff upper lip. Don't give in to him. Don't let
him fool you. The watchword is 'Suspicion.' Don't trust him--not if he
seems dying. _Let_ him die before you trust him for one second! Bless
you, dear lady! I do _hate_ to leave you all alone with it....
Good-bye."

And she was gone before Sophy could even utter some kind wishes about
Mrs. Harding's recovery.

XXV

When Sophy went to Cecil's room, he was lying back quietly reading. He
put down his book as she entered, and smiled at her. It was his own,
good smile--the smile that she remembered far back in their lover-days.
Tears rushed to her eyes. She was not a woman who wept easily; but now,
to see his face so purified of poison, to meet the smile that also shone
in the eyes--that glimpse of a resurrected soul in the face that had so
long been but a blurred mask of exotic passions--this bro