THE FRUIT OF THE TREE

He stood by her in silence, his eyes on the injured man.

THE FRUIT OF THE TREE

BY

EDITH WHARTON

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY ALONZO KIMBALL

NEW YORK CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS MDCCCCVII

COPYRIGHT, 1907, BY CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS

ILLUSTRATIONS

THE FRUIT OF THE TREE

I

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.

In

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."

"Will it go down by to-morrow?"

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