she did not pick up her strength very quickly, and but for her unfailing
high spirits Merryon would have felt anxious about her. There seemed to
be nothing of her. She was not like a creature of flesh and blood. Yet
how utterly, how abundantly, she satisfied him! She poured out her love
to him in a perpetual offering that never varied or grew less. She gave
him freely, eagerly, glowingly, all she had to give. With passionate
triumph she answered to his need. And that need was growing. He could
not blind himself to the fact. His profession no longer filled his life.
There were times when he even resented its demands upon him. The sick
list was rapidly growing, and from morning till night his days were
full.

Puck made no complaint. She was always waiting for him, however late the
hour of his return. She was always in his arms the moment the dripping
overcoat was removed. Sometimes he brought work back with him, and
wrestled with regimental accounts and other details far into the night.
It was not his work, but someone had to do it, and it had devolved upon
him.

Puck never would go to bed without him. It was too lonely, she said; she
was afraid of snakes, or rats, or bogies. She used to curl up on the
_charpoy_ in his room, clad in the airiest of wrappers, and doze the
time away till he was ready.

One night she actually fell into a sound sleep thus, and he, finishing
his work, sat on and on, watching her, loath to disturb her. There was
deep pathos in her sleeping face. Lines that in her waking moments were
never apparent were painfully noticeable in repose. She had the puzzled,
wistful look of a child who has gone through trouble without
understanding it--a hurt and piteous look.