The failing lamp showed her upturned face, with its
silent intensity of pity, her hands clasped round her knees, and the
brightness of her hair. The long minutes passed. Then suddenly the
Squire's eyelids fell, and he slept the sleep of a man physically
and mentally undone.
Aubrey Mannering sat by his brother all night. With the first dawn
Desmond awoke, and there was an awful interval of pain. But a fresh
morphia injection eased it, and Aubrey presently saw a smile--a look
of the old Desmond. The nurse washed the boy's hands and face,
brought him a cup of tea, took pulse and temperature.
'He's no worse,' she said in a whisper to Aubrey, as she passed him.
Aubrey went up to the bed.
'Aubrey, old chap!' said the boy, and smiled at him. Then--'It's
daylight. Can't I look out?'
The nurse and Mannering wheeled his bed to the window, which opened
to the ground. A white frost was on the grass, and there was a clear
sky through which the sunrise was fast mounting. Along an eastern
wood ran a fiery rose of dawn, the fine leaf-work of the beeches
showing sharply upon it.
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