"I'll see her. Miss Barbour is an exceptional
woman, but she's a woman, which means when she knows you are all right
she may not have time to see you. At present she's outside your door.
That's her knock. Guess she's got the milk."
With breath held, Van Landing listened. Very low were the words
spoken, then the door was closed again. His heart was calling to her.
The long and empty years in which he had hoped against hope, and yet
could make no effort to find her, faded as mist fades before the light
that dawns and glows; and to say no word when she was near, to hold
hands still that longed to outstretch, to make no sign when he would
kneel for pardon at her feet--it was not to be endured. He would not
wait; the doctor must let her in!
But it was not the doctor who was at his bed. It was a short, plump
woman of more than middle age, with twinkling gray eyes and firm, kind
hands and a cheery voice.
"It's the milk, my son," she said, and the steaming glass was held to
his lips. "When you've had it you will sleep like a baby. It's warm,
are you--and the feet good and hot? Let me feel that water-bag? Bless
my soul if it's even lukewarm, and your feet still shivery! It's no
wonder, for they were ice itself when they brought you in.
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