Edith Wharton

The Fruit of the Tree Edith Wharton

In the surgical ward of the Hope Hospital at Hanaford, a nurse was bending over a young man whose bandaged right hand and arm lay stretched along the bed. His head stirred uneasily, and slipping her arm behind him she effected a professional readjustment of the pillows. "Is that better?" As she leaned over, he lifted his anxious bewildered eyes, deep-sunk under ridges of suffering. "I don't s'pose there's any kind of a show for me, is there?" he asked, pointing with his free hand-the stained seamed hand of the mechanic-to the inert bundle on the quilt. Her only immediate answer was to wipe the dampness from his forehead; then she said: "We'll talk about that to-morrow." "Why not now?" "Because Dr. Disbrow can't tell till the inflammation goes down.