Sister. I must catch up my work. Have you anything for me to-night?"
"Will you sign No. 7's paper? The wound was very superficial, and Mr. Jones discharged him this morning. He is anxious to get on."
"I must speak to him first; he may be able to tell me something more," and he turned towards No. 7, sitting by the fire, and for the first time looked him in the face—the first time for five years rather! for I saw Dr. Freston pause as if transfixed, and the next moment he was at his brother's side.
"Jack!" he said, "Jack!" and could not say another word.
But that was all he had to say. Jack had been the thought of his life, night and day, for five years. And, now Jack was here, and he held him fast, what should he say but repeat "Jack!" again and again, until he could realise that this was no dream, but rather the awakening to a better and happier life than he had known before? Jack said nothing at all. For one moment he had looked round as if wishing to escape; but, if he would, he could not. And where in the world that he had found so hard and merciless could he hope to meet the warm welcome which strove to find utterance in his brother's broken words; but, finding feeble outlet there, shone so unmistakably in his brother's happy eyes, which gazed on the ragged figure before him as if he could never look enough.
That is all the tale. It gave the patients something to talk about for a day or two, and was then forgotten, in the ward at least.
But there are three people from whose memories no act or word recorded here can ever be effaced. Need I name them? They are Dr. Freston; Jack, his brother; and myself, Tom Freston's wife.
"Jack!"
