in regret; though they could not do
much good, it was a relief to come and whisper a few words to them now
and then, giving them news of the patient. But Phoebe was right, and
there was nothing to be said against her decision. The two young women
and the faithful Betsy were enough, and, indeed, more than enough to
watch over Mr. May.




CHAPTER XLI.

A MORNING'S WORK.


"Go and lie down for an hour," whispered Phoebe. "I am not sleepy at all.
I have sat up before, and never felt it, you never did, I can see it in
your poor little white face; and besides, I am steadier, because I am
not so anxious. Now go, Ursula, if you are really fond of me, as you
say--"

"Oh, Phoebe! if you think he is a little better. Oh, how horrible it is
to be sleepy, as if you were all body, and had no heart at all!"

"You have plenty of heart, but you have never been used to this nursing.
Leave your door open, so that I may call you in a moment. I have sat up
often. Now go, to please me," said Phoebe. She had another object than
mere rest to her friend, who at last, very much ashamed and crying
softly, yet so weary that nothing on this earth seemed so desirable to
her as sleep, crept to her room, and lay down there as the pale morning
began to dawn. Betsy slept heavily in an easy-chair outside the door of
the sick-room. She was there at hand in case anything was wanted, but
she was happily unconscious where she was, sleeping the sleep of hard
work and a mind undisturbed. Phoebe had seen that the patient was
stirring out of the dull doze in which his faculties had been entirely
stilled and stupefied. He was rousing to uneasiness, if not to full
consciousness. Two or three times he made a convulsive movement, as if
to raise himself; once his eyes, which were half open, seemed to turn
upon her with a vague glimmer of meaning. How strangely she felt towards
him, as she sat there in the grey of the morning, sole guardian, sole
confidant of this erring and miserable man! The thought ran through her
with a strange thrill. He was nothing to her