his arms. I hurried to meet them.

"I shall never forgive myself," he said; "the little thing has fallen
and injured her foot badly, I fear."

"I do not care at all," said Felipa; "I like to have it hurt. It is _my_
foot, isn't it?"

These remarks she threw at me defiantly, as though I had laid claim to
the member in question. I could not help laughing.

"The other lady will not laugh," said the child proudly. And in truth
Christine, most unexpectedly, took up the _role_ of nurse. She carried
Felipa to her own room--for we each had a little cell opening out of the
main apartment--and as white-robed Charity she shone with new radiance,
"Shone" is the proper word; for through the open door of the dim cell,
with the dark little face of Felipa on her shoulder, her white robe and
skin seemed fairly to shine, as white lilies shine on a dark night. The
old grandmother left the child in our care and watched our proceedings
wistfully, very much as a dog watches the human hands that extract the
thorn from the swollen foot of her puppy. She was grateful and asked no
questions; in fact, thought was not one of her mental processes. She did
not think much; she felt. As for Felipa, the child lived in rapture
during those days in spite of her suffering. She scarcely slept at
all--she was too happy: I heard her voice rippling on through the night,
and Christine's low replies. She adored her beautiful nurse.

The fourth day came: Edward Bowne walked into the cell. "Go out and
breathe the fresh air for an hour or two," he said in the tone more of a
command than a request.

"The child will never consent," replied Christine sweetly.

"Oh, yes, she will; I will stay with her," said the young man, lifting
the feverish little head on his arm and passing his hand softly over the
bright eyes. "Felipa, do you not want me?" said Christine, bending
down.

"He stays; it is all the same," murmured the child.

"So it is.--Go, Christine," said Edward with a little smile of triumph.

Without a word Christine left the cell. But she did not go to walk; she
came to my room, and, throwing herself on my bed, fell in a moment into
a deep sleep, the reaction after her three nights of wakefulness. When
she awoke it was long after dark, and I had relieved Edward in his
watch.

"You will have to give it up," he said as our lily came forth at last
with sleep-flushed cheeks and starry eyes shielded from the light. "The
spell is broken; we have all bee