Her patient had just awakened from a refreshing sleep
and she had no notion that this lofty little person had really come to
see the quiet, sad-eyed girl who had come there in such shabby little
garments. The visitor had made a mistake, of course. The nurse
grudgingly admitted that Miss Brentwood roomed there.
"Well, I've brought some things for her," said Gila, indicating the
large box at her feet. "You can take it inside and open it."
The nurse opened the door a little wider, looked at the small, imperious
personage in fur trappings, and then down at the box. She hesitated a
moment in a kind of inward fury, then swung the door a little wider open
and stepped back:
"You can set it inside if you wish, or wait till one of the men comes
by," she said, coolly, and deliberately walked back in the room and
busied herself with the medicine-glasses.
Gila stared at her haughtily a moment, but there wasn't much
satisfaction in wasting her glares on that white-linen back, so she
stooped and dragged in the box. She came and stood by the bed, staring
down apprizingly at the sick girl.
Bonnie Brentwood turned her head wearily and looked up at her with a
puzzled, half-annoyed expression. She had paid no heed to the little
altercation at the door. Her apathy toward life was great. She was lying
on the borderland, looking over and longing to go where all her dear
ones had gone. It wearied her inexpressibly that they all would insist
on doing things to call her back.
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