e or
homesickness or difficulty, if only Imogen could be properly cared for
and get well.

After the first day or two matters fell into regular grooves. The attack
proved a light one, as the doctor had hoped. Imogen was never actually
in danger, but there was a good deal of weakness and depression,
occasional wandering of mind, and always the low, underlying fever, not
easily detected save by the clinical thermometer. In her semi-delirious
moments she would ramble about Bideford and the people there, or hold
Clover's hand tight, calling her "Isabel," and imploring her not to like
"Mrs. Geoff" better than she liked her. It was the first glimpse that
Clover had ever caught of this unhappy tinge of jealousy in Imogen's
mind; it grieved her, but it also explained some things that had been
perplexing, and she grew very pitiful and tender over the poor girl,
away from home among strangers, and so ill and desolate.

The most curious thing about it all was the extraordinary preference
which the patient showed for Clover above all her other nurses. If
Euphane came to sit beside her, or Elsie, or even Lionel, while Clover
took a rest, Imogen was manifestly uneasy and unhappy. She never _said_
that she missed Clover, but lay watching the door with a strained,
expectant look, which melted into relief as soon as Clover appeared.
Then she would feebly move her fingers to lay hold of Clover's hand,
and holding it fast, would fall asleep satisfied and content. It seemed
as if the sense of comfort which Clover's appearance that first morning
had given continued when she was not quite herself, and influenced her.

"It's queer how much better she likes you than any of the rest of us,"
Lionel said one day. Clover felt oddly pleased at this remark. It was a
new experience to be preferred by Imogen Young, and she could not but be
gratified.

"Though very likely," she told herself, "she will stiffen up again when
she gets well; so I must be prepared for it, and not mind when it
happens."

Meanwhile Imogen could not have been better cared for anywhere than she
was in the High Valley. Clover had a natural aptitude for nursing. She
knew by instinct what a sick person would like and dislike, what would
refresh and what weary, what must be remembered and what avoided. Her
inventive faculties also came into full play under the pressure of the
little daily emergencies, when exactly the thing wanted was sure not to
be at hand. It was quite wond