All day long he was in and out of the room to watch his condition, and give him what personal attention he could. The nurse, though she seldom spoke or even looked at him, obeyed every direction implicitly and intelligently, and toward evening he could detect a slight—a very slight improvement in Tillinghast’s condition. Sister Angela did not spare herself; she renewed the hot bottles at his feet the moment they began to cool; she kept the heated blanket constantly about his body and administered either nourishment or stimulants every few minutes. During the night she was just as faithful; not once did she close her eyes to sleep or relax her vigilant care of her charge, and by morning he was more comfortable, if not actually better. But he was so weak, his pulse was so feeble, that Dr. Winthrop did not dare to hope much from the trifling improvement in his condition. Mr. Tillinghast, however, appeared to have a little more consciousness of the efforts to save him, and eagerly swallowed his nourishment and stimulants, instead of lying, as hitherto, almost indifferent. “You will be worn out—you must have rest,” Dr. Winthrop said to Sister Angela, as the second day of her attendance drew near its close and she was still as unremitting in her attentions as ever. “Nay; I shall not leave _monsieur le docteur’s_ friend until he is out of danger, or past all help,” she returned quietly but resolutely, and no amount of persuasion could change her decision. The young man did get better, he continued to rally slowly but steadily, and in a few days Dr. Winthrop was confident that if nothing new developed he would soon recover. As soon as Sister Angela was assured of this she consented to take her needed rest, and left him at regular intervals for this purpose; but she always returned promptly to her post afterward, and was still the same watchful, careful nurse. One morning, while she was giving her patient his first really solid breakfast, as he called it, Dr. Winthrop hastily entered the room, his face pale and stern, his brow wrinkled with care and an open note in his hand. “Sister Angela,” he said turning appealingly to her, “would you be willing to go out of the city to care for the sick? I am in a sad strait.” “What is it, dear old fellow?” Tillinghast asked sympathetically, and regarding his friend anxiously. “My father and Evelyn are both down with the cholera; my mother fears she soon may be, as she is far from well,” was the disheartening answer. “You will go, Sister Angela?” her patient said, turning eagerly to her. “I shall do well enough now with what attention I can get from other nurses; I will be very careful—nothing shall tempt me to be imprudent or impatient. Ah, you must go, for poor Winthrop is hard pressed.”