“A nurse?  I will nurse him myself, Dr. Page.”

It seemed to her the obvious thing to do.  She spoke proudly, for it flashed into her mind that here was the opportunity to redeem the situation with Wilbur.  She would tend him devotedly and when he had been restored to health by her loving skill, perhaps he would appreciate her at her worth, and recognize that she had thwarted him only to help him.

The doctor’s brow darkened, and he said with an emphasis which was almost stern:  “Mrs. Littleton, I do not wish to alarm you, but it is right that you should know that Wilbur’s symptoms are grave.  I hope to save his life, but it can be saved only by trained skill and attendance.  Inexperienced assistance, however devoted, would be of no use in a case like this.”

“But I only wished to nurse him.”

“I know it; I understand perfectly.  You supposed that anyone could do that.  At least that you could.  I shall return in an hour at the latest with a nurse who was trained for three years in a hospital to fit her to battle for valuable lives.”

Selma flushed with annoyance.  She felt that she was being ridiculed and treated as though she were an incapable doll.  She divined that by his raillery he had been making fun of her, and forthwith her predilection was turned to resentment.  Not nurse her husband?  Did this brow-beating doctor realize that, as a girl, she had been the constant attendant of her invalid father, and that more than once it had occurred to her that her true mission in life might be to become a nurse?  Training?  She would prove to him that she needed no further training.  These were her thoughts, and she felt like crying, because he had humiliated her at a time like this.  Yet she had let Dr. Page go without a word.  She returned to Wilbur and established herself beside his bed.  He tried to smile at her coming.

“I think I shall be better to-morrow.  It is only a heavy cold,” he said, but already he found difficulty in speaking.

“I have come to nurse you.  The blankets and hot-water bottle have made you warmer, haven’t they?  Nod; you mustn’t talk.”

“Yes,” he whispered huskily.

She felt his forehead, and it was burning.  She took his hand and saying, “Sh!  You ought not to talk,” held it in her own.  Then there was silence save for Wilbur’s uneasy turning.  It was plain that he was very uncomfortable.  She realized that he was growing worse, and though she chose to believe that the doctor had exaggerated the seriousness of the case in order to affront her, the thought came that he might die.  She had never considered such a possibility before.  What should she do?  She would be a widow without children and without means, for she knew that Wilbur had laid up little if anything.  She would have to begin life over again—­a pathetic prospect, yet interesting.  Even this conjecture of such a dire result conjured up a variety of possible methods of livelihood and occupation which sped through her mind.