the day before that? Why did a nun other than you come to me, and another bring me my breakfast?"

She answered, explaining simply and without any show of affection:

"At the early hour I visit only the sick. And we have many sick these days. The doctors are strict in their orders, so I must carry them out myself, or keep close watch over their execution; otherwise I cannot present my report on the condition of all the patients when the doctors arrive in the morning. As for you, since you are convalescing from the fever that struck you after the wound, anyone at all can perform the simple service you need."

"Then I wish my wound had not healed!"

He touched the place of the wound on his right arm and said:

"Shall I open it so that the fever comes back to me and I deserve care once more?"

She smiled with that reserve which is the rule of a nun's life, and said:

"Thank God for your recovery. Besides, I have other occupations this week, and today especially. We are arranging the church and dressing it in its festive ornaments so that it will be beautiful tomorrow, New Year's Day. Most of the convalescents will leave the hospital today, going off to their homes to spend the holidays among their families. But the work in the church continues without pause until the sixth of January, the feast of the Epiphany. This week is the season of feasts, as you know."

"I shall stay here through the whole season, for my family is far away and I have no friends in Cairo. Will you take me in, Sister?"

"You do well to stay here a few days more, Captain, for life in the

hospital is better ordered, better timed, and more sheltered than life outside, where your health might suffer a relapse. Nor will you feel bored, for we prepare for our patients pleasant little parties in which they amuse themselves and take delight, without excess or strain.

Won't you drink the milk?"

"I'll drink it. I'll drink it."

And as he made to adjust his position, he could not keep from groaning and letting out a sudden cry; she drew the cup away from him a little and asked:

"What is it? Are you in pain?"

"A pain not worth mentioning, whenever I move my right arm without paying attention — the moment I forget it is wounded and do not lead it to prepare for the movement with a little maneuvering."

"That will pass with time. And did you sleep well?"

"Very well. I sleep like a child, I wake like a child, and like a child I live out my day, looking at life with the affection people show a child, instead of their seeing in it, always, harshness and coldness and readiness to attack and to hurt, and meeting it in kind. Isn't that so?"

"Each of us has his duty, to perform faithfully under the watch of Divine Providence, whatever the outcome. Won't you drink, Captain? Afterward you will go to the garden for your morning exercise, so that the servants can clean your room and make up your bed. Look at this day — how beautiful it is! Nowhere but in Egypt will you find a sun like this, shining in such a season. As though we were in the heart of spring! Drink, and be quick about rising."

He sat up straight in his bed and stretched out his right hand to help hers bring the cup near his

lips. Her hand moved slowly, in keeping with his ailing hand. And when the cup touched his lips he did not drink this time either. He kept looking at her face bent over him. He kept contemplating her lids, lowered over two pupils that hid their secrets. He kept looking in silence, and contemplating in silence. Then he shifted his hand and turned it slowly about the nun's wrist, and finger after finger his fingers touched her hand, as though he were testing his strength upon it. And when he felt that strength did not fail him, he pressed warmly upon the hand that did not move — for fear of spilling the milk, and out of gentleness toward his ailing hand.

A slight tremor crept into her lowered lashes. But her face remained still, its features composed, as though nothing had happened. And in her quiet voice, as was her habit, she said:

"Drink, sir."

"How sweet is the sweetness in your face, Sister! Did you gain it by the practice of patience in your religious life — a life of privation, renunciation, austerity, and spiritual rapture? Or did it spring from your experience in attending surgical operations, and your habit of tenderness toward the sick, consoling them and speaking to them — men and women, old and young — as one speaks to an infant in need of care and love? Or is this sweetness a gift to you from God?"

"Man possesses nothing that is not among the gifts of God, Captain. They began the daily rounds of the patients at ten o'clock, and it will not be long before your turn comes and they join you in the garden."

She went out with steps that made no sound, as though she wore slippers of cotton. She had gone but a little way along the hall when she caught sight of the soldier — the officer's "orderly"