The occupant of the room must have understood Latin and Greek, for there were texts in both these languages. There was one text only in our common tongue, and that was over the mantelpiece. It was not an illuminated text, and it had no lovely floral border. It was written in plain, bold characters in black and white: 'Inasmuch as ye do it unto the least of these My brethren, ye do it unto Me.' Lucy couldn't keep her eyes off those familiar words which she read now in a new light. There wasn't much else in the room to look at. There was a bed that was a couch by day; it was a bed still, though it was past eleven o'clock; Nurse Brannan had evidently not long risen from it. The room was in the disorder of the early morning, and the day arrangements did not yet prevail. It was as untidy as a nurse's room well could be: the breakfast things were still on the table, and the demure little bonnet and cloak looked as if they had hastily been taken off and thrown on the bed, and a pair of outdoor shoes were lying in the middle of the floor. While Lucy was still noticing these details Nurse Brannan came in. She was a little bit of a nurse, with pink cheeks and steady blue eyes and fluffy hair. She was not at all a formidable person. Lucy ran up to her when she came in, and took both her hands. She couldn't ask the question that was on her lips, she was moved out of all sense and reason. The anxieties of the night and the mathematics of the morning, and the lean little encircling arm had moved her strangely, and now she was hardly master of herself. Nurse Brannan shook her head. 'He is no better,' she said. She didn't say it at all sadly. She was so used to such things--to sickness and suffering and death--it didn't move her in the least. 'I have just come back from St. Benedict's, and there is no improvement. He has had a dreadful night. They thought at one time of calling up the Tutor.' 'And they have not told him yet?' Lucy asked, pale to the lips. 'Are they going to let him die?' 'They have not told him; they have not told anyone in the college; but I don't know about letting him die.' 'You think he'll get over it? Oh, do you really think it possible with that--that dreadful wound he can get better?' Only talking about the wound made Lucy sick and faint. She was made of very poor stuff. She would have been no good at Addenbroke's. Nurse Brannan smiled. 'The wound is nothing,' she said: 'it is not at all serious. He will get better if he is well watched, and they protect him from himself. When the attack passes off he will not be much the worse--only it may occur again at any time.' 'The attack?' Lucy said feebly; she was quite at sea as to Nurse Brannan's meaning. 'Oh, you didn't know he did it in a fit of delirium tremens. This is the second time he has had an attack, and he has attempted his life both times. His friends ought to take him away and put him under restraint.'