At
length Nellie had persuaded her father to take some rest. He had cast one
long, searching look upon the boy's face, and then silently left the room.
For some time Nellie sat by Dan's side watching his fitful breathing. One
little hand lay outside the quilt. Would it ever work for her again? she
wondered. It was a brown hand--the same hand which had reached over and
drawn Tony from death. As she sat there the door was quietly pushed open,
and Marion stood before her. Her eyes looked towards the bed with a
questioning appeal. In her right hand she clutched a little rose. It was
the first time she had been in the sick room, and on this evening while
her mother was busy she had softly stolen away.
"Give dis to ittle sick boy," she said. "He like pitty woses."
"Come here, dear," Nellie replied, and as the child approached she took
the flower, and placed the stem in Dan's doubled-up hand. She did it
merely to please Marion, but it thrilled her own heart to behold the
little maiden's sweet offering lying in that poor, nerveless fist. "God
bless you, darling," she said, drawing Marion to her. "You love the sick
boy, don't you?"
"Me love him," came the response, "an' me lore oo.
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