"Go on to bed, Quin," Rose whispered one night, when she found him asleep
with his head against the bed-post. "You'll be giving out next, and God
knows what I'll do then."
"Not me!" he declared, suppressing a yawn. "You're the one that's done
in. Why don't you stay down?"
"I can't," she murmured, kneeling anxiously beside the unconscious
patient. "He looks worse to me to-night. Do you believe we can pull him
through?"
She had on a faded pink kimono over her thin night-gown, and her heavy
hair was plaited down her back. There were no chestnut puffs over her
ears or pink spots on her cheeks, and her lips looked strange without
their penciled cupid's bow. But to Quin there was something in her drawn
white face and anxious, tender eyes that was more appealing. In their
long siege together he had found a staunch dependence and a power of
sacrifice in the girl that touched him deeply.
"I don't know, Rose," he admitted, reaching over and smoothing her hair;
"but we'll do our darnedest."
At the touch of his hand she reached up and impulsively drew it down to
her cheek, holding it there with her trembling lips against its hard
palm.
The night was intensely hot and still.
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