"No. Well, Daisy, say the other thing. About the self-will."

I hesitated.

"Are you apt to be self-willed?" he asked, tenderly.

"I do not know. I believe I did not use to think so. I am afraid it is very difficult to know oneself, Christian."

"_I_ think you are self-willed," he said, smiling.

"Did you use to see it in me?"

"I think so. What is the present matter in hand, Daisy?"

I did not want to tell him. But I could not run away. And those bright eyes were going over my face and reading in it, I knew. I did not know what they read. I feared. He waited, smiling a little as he looked.

"I ought not to be self-willed, - about anything," - I said at last.

"No, I suppose not. What has got a grip of your heart then, Daisy?"

"I am unwilling to see you lying here," I said. It was said with great force upon myself, under the stress of necessity.

"And unwilling that I should get any but one sort of discharge," - he added.

"You do not fear it," I said, hastily.

"I fear nothing. But a soldier, Daisy, - a soldier ought to be ready for orders; and he must not choose. He does not know where the service will call for him. He knows his Captain does know."

I stood still, slowly fanning Mr. Thorold; my self-control could go no further than to keep, me outwardly quiet.

"_You_ used to be a soldier," he said gently, after a pause.

"You are yet. Not ready for orders, Daisy?"

"Christian - you know, -" I stammered forth.

"I know, my beloved. And there is another that knows. He knows all. Can't you leave the matter to him?"

"I must."

"Must is a hard word. Let Jesus appoint, and let you and me obey; because we love Him, and are His."

He was silent, and so was I then; the words trooping in a sort of grand procession through some distant part of my brain - "All things are yours; whether life, or death, or the world, or things present, or things to come; all are yours; and ye are Christ's; and Christ is G.o.d's." I knew they swept by there, in their sweetness and their majesty; I could not lay hold of them to make them dwell with me then.

A few days went past, filled with duty as usual; more filled with a consuming desire which had taken possession of me, to know really how Mr. Thorold was and what were the prospects of his recovery. His face always looked clear and well; I thought his wounds were not specially painful; I never saw any sign that they were; the dressing of them was always borne very quietly. _That_ was not uncommon, but involuntary tokens of pain were sometimes wrung from the sufferers; a sigh, or a knit brow, or a pale cheek, or a clinched hand, gave one sorrowful knowledge often that the heroism of patient courage was more severely tested in the hospital than on the field. I never saw any of these signs in Mr. Thorold. In spite of myself, a hope began to spring and grow in my heart, which at the first seeing of him in that place I had thought dead altogether. And then I could not rest short of certainty. But how to get any light at all on the subject was a question. The other nurse could not tell me, for she knew no more than myself; not so much, for she rarely nursed Mr. Thorold. Dr. Sandford never told how his patients were doing or likely to do; if he were asked, he evaded the answer. What we were to do, he told explicitly, carefully; the issue of our cares he left it to time and fact to show. So what was I to do? Moreover, I did not wish to let him see that I had any, the least, solicitude for one case more than the rest. And another thing, I dreaded unspeakably to make the appeal and have my doubts solved. With the one difficulty and the other before me, I let day after day go by; day after day; during which I saw as much of Mr.

Thorold as I could, and watched him with intense eyes. But I was able to resolve nothing; only I thought his appet.i.te grew poorer than it had been, while that of many others was improving. We had some chance for talk during those days; by s.n.a.t.c.hes, I told him a good deal of the history of my European life; and he gave me details of his life in camp and field. We lived very close to each other all that time, though outward communication was so restricted. Hearts have their own way of communicating, - and spirits are not wholly shut in by flesh and blood. But as the days went by, my anxiety and suspense began to glow unendurable.

So I followed Dr. Sandford one morning to his den, as he called it.

"Are you getting tired of hospital life?" he asked me? with a smile. "I see you want to speak to me."

"You know I am not tired."

"I know you are not. There is something in a woman that likes suffering, I think, if only she can lay her hand on it and relieve it."

"That is making it a very selfish business, Dr. Sandford."

"We are all selfish," said the doctor. "The difference is, that some are selfish for themselves, and some for other people."

"Now you are cynical."

"I am nothing of the kind. What do you want with me?"

"Preston is doing very well, is he not, Dr. Sandford."

"Perfectly well. He will be out just as soon as in the nature of things it is possible. I suppose, or am I not to suppose, that then you will consider your work done?"

"I do not think he wants me a quarter as much as other people, now."

"He does not want you at all, in the sense of needing. In the other sense, I presume different people might put in a claim to be attended to."

"But, Dr. Sandford, I wish I knew who of all these people in the ward need me most."

"You are doing all you can for all of them."

"If I had that knowledge, though, I might serve them better - or with more judicious service."

"No you could not," said the doctor. "You are twice as judicious as Miss Yates now; though she is twice as old as you. You do the right thing in the right place always."

"I wish you would do this thing for me, nevertheless, Dr.

Sandford. I wish it very much."

"What thing?"

"Let me know the various states of the patients, and their prospect of recovery."

"Most of them have a very fair prospect of recovery," said the doctor.

"Will you do it for me, Dr. Sandford? - I ask it as a great favour."

"Gary's all right," he said, with a full look at me.

"Yes, I know; but I would like to know how it is with the others. I could better tell how to minister to them, and what to do."

"The thing to be done would not vary at all with your increased knowledge, Daisy."

"Not the things in your line, I know; but the things in mine."

"You would know better how to sing, to wit?" said the doctor.