Читать книгу On the Brink of a Chasm: A record of plot and passion онлайн

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“There is nothing to frighten you, child, quite the contrary,” said the nurse. “You must just lie quiet and fix your eyes on me.”

“I don’t want that bright light,” said the boy.

“Never mind the light—don’t think of it. I want to send you off to sleep.”

“Why don’t you give me something to send me to sleep? When mother had bad toothache the doctor gave her something out of a bottle and she went to sleep. I wish you’d give me something out of a bottle. I don’t like to go to sleep your way.”

“Mine is a much, much better way. Now you’ll do what I tell you. Give me both your hands.”

“I—I won’t!” said the child, struggling and beginning to cry feebly.

“I am going to stroke your forehead quite gently, and you shall look in my eyes. Don’t look away. See, I’m going to comfort you.”

The boy fidgeted and tried to shut his eyes.

“Open your eyes, Piers, look at me this minute,” said the nurse, in a firm, stern voice.

“I—I won’t!” began the child. He looked away, then he looked again; soon he looked steadily, his own eyes full of fear. Gradually the fear went out of them, the eyes became fixed and strained. The nurse sat in such a position that the boy had to look up a little as he gazed at her. Meanwhile she stroked his forehead gently, calmly. Soon a change came over the face, the eyelids closed, the color left cheeks and lips; the nurse put her finger and thumb on the little wrist—the pulse had apparently ceased to beat.