At six
o'clock an orderly stood at the door of the major's quarters. Mrs.
Lysle was standing on the steps, her eyes fixed on the far horizon
across which a ship had melted away.
"Beg pardon, madam," said the orderly, saluting, "but young O'Keefe
is very ill. We have had the surgeon, but the--the--pain's getting
worse. He's just yelling with agony."
"I'll go at once, orderly. I should have been told before," she
replied; and burying her own heartache, she hurried to the men's
quarters. Her anxious eyes sought the surgeon's. "Oh, doctor!" she
said, "this poor fellow must be looked after. What can I do to
help?"
"Everything, Mrs. Lysle," gruffed the surgeon with a professional
air. "He is very ill. He must be kept wrapped in hot linseed
poultices and--"
"Oh, I say, doctor," remonstrated poor O'Keefe, "I'm not that bad."
"You're a very sick man," scowled the surgeon. "Now, Mrs. Lysle has
graciously offered to help nurse you. She'll see that you have hot
fomentations every half hour. I'll drop in twice a day to see how
you are getting along." And with that miserable prospect before
him, poor O'Keefe watched the surgeon disappear.
"I simply _had_ to order those half-hour fomentations, old man,"
apologized the surgeon that night.
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