For an hour the two nurses sat by Ross’s side—neither speaking a word. At last Bradford yawned and remarked: “He’s all right now, little girl. The worst is over. I’m going to finish my nap. Don’t disturb him—let him sleep as long as he will. When he awakes he’ll be conscious. Call me, if he rouses before I do. Be brave a little longer; and all will be well.” For hours the two men slept. La Violette scarcely dared to breathe, for fear of waking her charge. Noon came. Bradford arose, and, approaching the couch, closely inspected the sleeper. “He’s doing nicely,” he said. Then noting La Violette’s pallid face: “Come—you must get out of here. I don’t care to take charge of another patient just now. I never did like the practice of the profession. Take a turn in the open air—and get something to eat while you’re gone.” But she resolutely shook her head, as she replied: “I will stay by him until he awakes. You go—you need air and exercise more than I.” “You’ll go when I return?” he asked. “If he be awake—yes.” Bradford smiled to himself, as he passed through the door, murmuring: “I know your desire, my sweet maid. You want your face to be the first he shall see when he regains consciousness—your voice to be the first he shall hear. Ah! Love may make cowards of men; but it makes angels of women.” After Bradford left the cabin, La Violette kneeled upon the bare ground at the sleeping man’s side and gazed long and earnestly into his face, moving her lips as though in prayer. Then she timidly took his thin hand between her soft palms and kissed it gently—reverently, again and again. At last he stirred and opened his eyes. The blank stare of delirium was gone; there was intelligence in the look he fastened upon her. Embarrassed, she dropped his hand and drew herself erect, her face aflame. His lips moved; and she caught the faint whisper: “La Violette.” She nodded, but placed her finger upon her lips, in token of silence. “Where am I?” he persisted. “With friends,” she answered feelingly. “But you are very weak; you must not talk.” Unheeding her words, he went on in a feeble, whispering tone: “I’m so helpless. Have I been very ill?” “Yes; you have been very ill. Please do not try to talk; the effort will hurt you.” Leaving his side, she brought a cup of gruel from the fire—where it had been warming upon the coals—and insisted that he drink it. Like a fretful child, he pushed it aside and whimpered: “Answer my questions—answer my questions!” Seeing that he was growing excited, she said soothingly: “Drink this for me, and I will answer your questions. Take it all—that’s right. Now, what do you want to know?” “Where am I—at Wildcat Creek?” “No; you are at the village of the Miamis, upon the Mississinewa.” “Who brought me here?” “Hiram Bradford.” “Bradford? Ah, yes! I remember now. I was wounded by the Winnebagoes. My companions left me, thinking I was dead. How long have I been here—several days?” “Several weeks.”