"You stay where you are," said his father tolerantly. "You're well
enough as it is--if you behave!" He was looking with satisfaction from
his son to the young girl. She had turned to the tray and her fingers
were busy with the dishes.
"She takes good care of me," said Medfield, with a little gesture toward
the competent fingers.
"I don't doubt it, sir.... I might almost say I wouldn't mind being
ill--myself!" A kind of shyness in the words redeemed them and the girl
smiled.
"People who are not ill, generally think they wouldn't mind," she said
quietly.
She lifted the tray and set it aside.
"I'll take out your pillows now. It's time for you to rest." She
removed the pillows and shook them a little and placed the fresh one
beneath his head and straightened the clothes for him, with her firm,
competent, comfortable hands.
The boy's eyes followed the white figure as it left the room, carrying
the tray lightly. They came back to his father's face.
"I think I've had my orders," he said laughingly. "I'm to go now, I
understand. I'll be back by and by, sir--when you are 'rested.'" He
hesitated a minute. Then he bent down and kissed his father, almost
shyly, and left the room.
The door closed behind him and Herman Medfield fell asleep and
dreamed--"as if he really cared," thought Herman Medfield, as he drifted
away into sleep.