First of all, he stayed late. Then, when the
nurse came down, she was bidden to go back to bed again, if she liked.
Hour after hour passed. He threw himself on the sofa, but it was not to
close his eyes. And yet all seemed going well in the sick-room. Both the
doctor and he had convinced themselves that Lionel was now asleep--no
lethargic stupor this time, but actual sleep, from which everything was
to be hoped. Maurice would not speak; he wrote on slips of paper when he
had anything to say. And so the long night went by, until the
window-panes slowly changed from black to blue, and from blue to gray.
About eight o'clock in the morning the old doctor came out of the room,
and Maurice knew in a moment the nature of his tidings.
"All is going well," he whispered. "The temperature is steadily
decreasing--nearly three degrees since last night--and he is now in a
profound sleep; the crisis is over, and happily over, as I imagine. I'm
going along to tell his mother and Francie--and to go to bed for a bit."
And Maurice? Well, here was the nurse; he was not wanted; he was a
good-natured sort of person and he had seen how patiently and faithfully
Nina had concealed her grief and done mutely everything they wanted of
her.
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