Hamilton's fecund brain, scattering its
creations, made more than one reputation.
Meanwhile, he awoke one day to find Mrs. Croix sitting beside his bed.
She had left town in June, and usually did not return until late in
September. She wore a white frock and a blue sash, and looked like an
angel about to do penance.
"I have come back to take care of the sick, including yourself," she
announced, "I was born to be a nurse, and I felt that my place was here.
I have come to see you first, and I shall call daily, but otherwise I am
in Dr. Stevens's hands."
Hamilton stared at her. He was not surprised, for she was kind hearted
in her erratic imperious fashion, and much beloved by the poor; nor was
she afraid of anything under heaven. But she was the last person he had
wished to see; she was for his triumphant hours, or his furious, not for
helpless invalidism. He had longed consistently for his wife, and
written to her by every packet-boat, lest she suspect his illness and
return to the plague-stricken city. He was filled with a sudden
resentment that any other woman should presume to fill her chair.
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