Mr. Wilton, as soon as he began to recognise anything, noticed Lotte’s presence; and, on making a remark respecting it, was informed by the physician that it was a young lady who had kindly undertaken to tend him with that earnest care which could not be obtained, save in exceptional instances, from a hired nurse, and he spoke in warm and praiseful terms of the service she had rendered.
Wilton fancied he had seen her face somewhere, but could not remember where; it was a passing thought, and he did not ask her name, assuming that it was some new-formed friend of Flora’s, residing in their neighbourhood; in truth, he was glad to think so, and satisfied himself with the supposition, for he felt too ill to pursue inquiries.
He quickly felt the value of Lotte’s presence and her services; there were so many little nameless attentions, such a close regard for his comfort and immunity from pain, such a constant anticipation of his wishes and his wants, that at length he could scarcely bear her from his sight.
He began to get strength to talk, and he conversed with her or listened while she read to him, eliciting occasionally her opinions upon the subject he had selected, and he was pleased with the evidence she gave of a sensible and practical mind, as well as of a pure taste. Soon his conversation, chatty and familiar, began to revert to herself, and became embarrassingly personal. Still he did not identify her.
He knew, indeed, that her name was Clinton, but the name itself struck him no more than if it had been Brown or Thompson, at least in connection with the individual whom his son frantically, as he considered, designed to marry. In fact it was not likely to occur to him that a young damsel, against whose admission into his family he had so vehemently and determinedly set his face, should have absolutely taken possession of his sick chamber, to act a daughter’s part. And as he had adopted, as soon as he began to be sensible of her kind attention, the appellation of “my little nurse,” in addressing or speaking of her, the name of Clinton quickly left his memory.
Only from her hand would he take his medicine; she never made any mistake, or gave him more or less than he ought to have had, and if she was not there to administer it, he insisted that it was not the proper time to take it. She gave him his food; it was always correct as to its quality, quantity, and fitness. Hers was the first face to greet his opening eyes in the morning, the last upon whom they closed at night. Ay, even in the night, at times, he would wake and find the same pleasant, patient face hanging over him, and when he asked why she had not retired, she was always ready to answer him with a plea, that during the previous day she had observed him to be not so well, and as a restless night usually followed those symptoms of retrogression, she was merely at hand to administer to him some soothing medicine which the physician had provided for such contingencies.