might have been an idealized portrait of Mrs. Prince,—the face of a saint against a background of sunset, or the head of a martyr dark against flame, as the imagination of the beholder should suggest.
The frame was oval with an inscription below the head. It was also heavy, of plaited bronze, with a boxlike backing. It was the work of a finished artist, however, and, being idealized, the portrait was beautiful. It was hung above the bed, as the other wall spaces were occupied with cheerful landscapes.
Madame Kanaris laid a loose bunch of pomegranate flowers on the pillow beneath it, and she and Prince left B——the next day—as they thought—forever.
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The new hospital was a popular one, but for some reason the Prince Ward remained vacant. There was nothing mysterious about this; it had been bespoken many times for patients, but a change of mind would occur so naturally that at first nothing was thought of it. In a year or so, however, the continued vacancy began to be a subject of remark among the nurses. But they were too busy and too practical to regard it in any other light than that of a provoking pecuniary loss to the establishment.
One night in January the night nurse of the second floor, at one end of which was the Prince Ward, sat drowsily waiting for medicine periods or the sound of bells from the various rooms.
It was the last night of her watch, and she was worn out from a month's sleeplessness.
Toward midnight the tinkle of a bell roused her. She went from door to door trying to place it. As she neared the Prince Ward it sounded again.
She paused at the door.
"Very strange," she thought; "surely there is no one in here?"
But to make sure she went in. The room was icy cold. A low moan came from the narrow bed.
"Water!" murmured a voice inarticulately. " Water!"
"Wait until I turn on the light," said the nurse, going towards the chimney-place. She stepped on something, tripped, would
