Without a word Christine left the cell. But she did not go to walk: she came to my room, and throwing herself on my bed fell in a moment into a deep sleep, the reaction after her three nights of wakefulness. When she awoke it was long after dark, and I had relieved Edward in his watch. "You will have to give it up," he said as our lily came forth at last with sleep-flushed cheeks and starry eyes shielded from the light. "The spell is broken: we have all been taking care of Felipa, and she likes one as well as the other." Which was not true, in my case at least, since Felipa had openly derided my small strength when I lifted her, and beat off the sponge with which I attempted to bathe her hot face. "They" used no sponges, she said, only their nice cool hands; and she wished "they" would come and take care of her again. But Christine had resigned in toto. If Felipa did not prefer her to all others, then Felipa could not have her: she was not a common nurse. And indeed she was not. Her fair beauty, ideal grace, cooing voice and the strength of her long arms and flexible hands were like magic to the sick, and--distraction to the well; the well in this case being Edward Bowne looking in at the door. "You love them very much, do you not, Felipa?" I said one day when the child was sitting up for the first time in a cushioned chair. "Ah, yes: it is so delicious when they carry me," she replied. But it was Edward who carried her. "He is very strong," I said. "Yes, and their long soft hair, with the smell of roses in it too," said Felipa dreamily. But the hair was Christine's. "I shall love them for ever, and they will love me for ever," continued the child. "Drollo too." She patted the dog's head as she spoke, and then concluded to kiss him on his little inch of forehead: next she offered him all her medicines and lotions in turn, and he smelled at them grimly. "He likes to know what I am taking," she explained. I went on: "You love them, Felipa, and they are fond of you. They will always remember you, no doubt." "Remember!" cried Felipa, starting up from her cushions like a Jack-in-the-box. "They are not going away? Never! never!" "But of course they must go some time, for--" But Felipa was gone. Before I could divine her intent she had flung herself out of her chair down on to the floor, and was crawling on her hands and knees toward the outer room. I ran after her, but she reached the door before me, and, dragging her bandaged foot behind her, drew herself, toward Christine. "You are _not_ going away! You are not! you are not!" she sobbed, clinging to her skirts. Christine was reading tranquilly: Edward stood at the outer door mending his fishing-tackle. The coolness between them remained unwarmed by so much as a breath. "Run away, child: you disturb me," said Christine, turning over a leaf. She did not even look at the pathetic little bundle at her feet. Pathetic little bundles must be taught some time what ingratitude deserves.