of anything. It amused the doctor so one morning, when he was leaning
over listening to Carl's heart and lungs, as he lay in more or less of a
doze and partial delirium. A twinkle suddenly came into Carl's eye. "You
sprung a new necktie on me this morning, didn't you?" Sure enough, it
was new.)

Thursday morning the nurse was preparing things for his bath in another
room and I was with Carl. The sun was streaming in through the windows
and my heart was too contented for words. He said: "Do you know what
I've been thinking of so much this morning? I've been thinking of what
it must be to go through a terrible illness and not have some one you
loved desperately around. I say to myself all the while: 'Just think, my
girl was here all the time--my girl will be here all the time!' I've
lain here this morning and wondered more than ever what good angel was
hovering over me the day I met you."

I put this in because it is practically the last thing he said before
delirium came on again, and I love to think of it. He said really more
than that.

In the morning he would start calling for me early--the nurse would try
to soothe him for a while, then would call me. I wanted to be in his
room at night, but they would not let me--there was an unborn life to be
thought of those days, too. As soon as I reached his bed, he would clasp
my hand and hold it oh, so tight. "I've been groping for you all
night--all night! Why _don't_ they let me find you?" Then, in a moment,
he would not know I was there. Daytimes I had not left him five minutes,
except for my meals. Several nights they had finally let me be by him,
anyway. Saturday morning for the first time since the crisis the doctor
was encouraged. "Things are really looking up," and "You go out for a