The ward surgeon, entering, started at the sight of the beautiful face on the narrow pillow. Instantly the scene of two years before renewed its living colors on the sensitive film of memory. He even recalled the name of the woman before him, so deeply had that scene and her beauty impressed him.
"It is Madame Kanaris," he said.
The patient opened her dark blue eyes.
"I am Mrs. Prince," she corrected; "I wish to send a telegram to New York at once."
She turned white; fainted again. The broken bones were attended to with expedition.
Before night the telegram was sent. There had been some delay of letters, some misunderstanding that had sent Mrs. Prince to B——by mistake.
That lady's brilliant eyes examined lier surroundings.
"I am in the——Hospital, in the Prince Ward?" she said presently.
"Yes," said Mrs. Waxe, disturbed by the coincidence of names.
"I selected the fittings and furniture for it," Mrs. Prince went on softly. "But I did not think, at the time, of myself." She looked at the picture above the bed.
"You must have that picture taken down for me, Mrs. Waxe. I do not like to have anything 'hanging over me,' even if it is the counterfeit presentment of a saint."
An ugly sneer disfigured her delicate lips for a moment.
"I will have it taken down as soon as possible," said the head nurse; "but it cannot be done immediately, my dear. We have sent out all the nurses we can spare, and extra beds have been put in nearly every ward. I am too heavy to risk myself on a ladder, but I will see the superintendent about it after a bit. It is well fastened up, I assure you."
Towards night, not hearing from Mr. Prince, madame grew nervous, then feverish.
In a sick-bed for the first time in her life, strapped immovably to its narrow confines, her head beginning to throb with agony, she lay suffocating with impatience, suspense, and apprehension, she,—the spoiled darling of every good fortune.
