mpered light lay on familiar things,
and some one was moving about in a shadowy way between bed and window.
He was thirsty and some one gave him a drink. His pillow burned, and
some one turned the cool side out. His brain was clear enough now for
him to understand that he was ill, and to want to talk about it; but his
tongue hung in his throat like a clapper in a bell. He must wait till
the rope was pulled...

So time and life stole back on him, and his thoughts laboured weakly
with dim fears. Slowly he cleared a way through them, adjusted himself
to his strange state, and found out that he was in his own room, in his
grandfather's house, that alternating with the white-capped faces about
him were those of his mother and sister, and that in a few days--if he
took his beef-tea and didn't fret--Paul would be brought up from Long
Island, whither, on account of the great heat, he had been carried off
by Clare Van Degen.

No one named Undine to him, and he did not speak of her. But one day,
as he lay in bed in the summer twilight, he had a vision of a moment,
a long way behind him--at the beginning of his illness, it must have
been--when he had called out for her in his anguish, and some one had
said: "She's coming: she'll be here next week."

Could it be that next week was not yet here? He supposed that illness
robbed one of all sense of time, and he lay still, as if in ambush,
watching his scattered memories come out one by one and join themselves
together. If he watched long enough he was sure he should recognize one
that fitted into his picture of the day when he had asked for Undine.
And at length a face came out of the twilight: a freckled face,
benevolently bent over him under a starched cap. He had not seen the
face for a long time, but suddenly it took shape and fitted itself into
the picture...

Laura Fairford sat near by, a book on her knee. At the sound of his
voice she looked up.

"What was the name of the first nurse?"

"The first--?"

"The one that went away."

"Oh--Miss Hicks, you mean?"

"How long is it since she went?"

"It must be three weeks. She had another case."

He thought this over carefully; then he spoke again. "Call Undine."

She made no answer, and he repeated irritably: "Why don't you call her?
I want to speak to her."

Mrs. Fairford laid down her book and came to him.

"She's not here--just now."

He dealt with this also, laboriously. "You mean she's out--she's not in
the h