THE LUCK OF THE IRISH
pathies went out to the man. The moment he came into the room he radiated love. It beamed from his eyes, it was in the touch of his big, clumsy, toil-stained hands, it was manifest in his unforgetfulness. All day long he labored in the heat; but he never was too weary to spend half the night at the bedside. The nurse wondered what kind of vitality it was this man drew upon, since, visibly, he had no way of renewing it.
Immediately Ruth regained consciousness, however, the nurse was keen to note the change in the man. The love was there, but he hid it, repressed it, stifled it. This part of the mystery the nurse could not solve.
One day, when she was able to walk about, Ruth asked—in fact, she had been wanting to ask the question for some time, but until now could not push her courage to the point—if she had had any rings on her hands when taken ill.
"Yes. I believe Mr. Grogan took them off for fear you might lose them," said the nurse. "You flung your arms about a good deal. You're a lucky woman, Mrs. Grogan. How that man loves you! Of course, you know that he had no money. He went out and found work. He'd work all day and watch at your bed nearly all night. Sometimes he fell asleep in the chair, and I would not disturb him until breakfast. For ten days he worked from six in the morning until five in the afternoon, and the pity of it, it wasn't needful. But he thought he just had to have money. He didn't know that the doctor and I
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