Some days after this, she offered one afternoon to relieve the nurse. She had done this before and frequently. Heretofore the service had consisted, since the patient almost always slept through the afternoon, in sitting quietly in the darkened chamber and dreaming her own dreams for an hour or two, when the grateful nurse came back refreshed. To-day she was presently aware that he was awake; that he was lying there with his eyes open, regarding the slow play of light and shadow upon the ceiling. She had found out, on those earlier occasions, that he did not discriminate between her and the usual nurse; when he roused himself to demand water he had looked no farther than the glass held by her hand to his lips. Now, as she felt at once as with a faint electric shock, it was going to be different. He spoke presently. His voice, though halting and much weakened, resembled the Colonel's golden, energetic drawl. "What time is it?" "Five o'clock." "What day of the month?" She told him. "Alexandria in April!" he said. "What impossible things happen!" She did not answer, and he fell silent, lying there staring at the ceiling. In a few minutes he asked for water. The glass at his lips, she felt that he looked with curiosity first at the hand which held it, and then at her face. "Water tastes good," he said, "doesn't it?" "Yes, it does." She put down the glass and returned to her seat. "You aren't," he said, "the nurse I've had." "No; she will be back presently." There followed another pregnant silence; then: "A beautiful string of impossibilities. I know the Colonel's here--been here a long time. Now, did I dream it or did Thomson tell me that he'd brought my daughter with him?" "Thomson told you." Medway lay quite quiet and relaxed. The cut over the head was nearly healed; there was now but a slight fillet-like white bandage about it. Thomson had trimmed mustache and short pointed beard; the features above were bloodless yet, but no longer sunken and ghastly; the eyes were gathering keenness and intelligence. Ashendynes and Coltsworths were alike good-looking people, and Medway had taken his share. He knew it, prized it, and bestowed upon it a proper care. Hagar wondered--wondered. He spoke again. "Life's a variorum! I shouldn't wonder ... Hagar!" "Yes, father?" "Suppose you come over here, nearer. I want to see how you've 'done growed up.'" She moved her chair until it rested full in a slant ray of sunlight, coming through the lowered blinds, then sat within the ray, as still almost as if she had been sculptured there. Five minutes passed. "Haven't you any other name than Hagar?" said Medway. "Are they always going to call you that?" "Grandfather calls me Gipsy--except when he doesn't like what I do." "Does that happen often? Are you wilful?" "I do not know," said Hagar. "I am like my mother." When she had spoken, she repented it with a pang of fear. He was in no condition, of course, to have waked old, disturbing thoughts.