r her where she won't become
a sort of nightmare to some one, with her devotion, or else get it taken
advantage of again?' And I urged them to keep her a little longer. They
did; for when I went home for good, six months later, I found that she
had only just gone into a place with an old lady-patient of mine, in a
small villa on the outskirts of our village. She used to open the door
to me when I called there on my rounds once a week. She retained
vestiges of the neatness which had been grafted on her by the Sister,
but her frock was already beginning to sag down on one side, and her
hair to look ill-treated. The old lady spoke to her with a sort of
indulgent impatience, and it was clear that the girl's devotion was not
concentrated upon her. I caught myself wondering what would be its next
object, never able to help the feeling that if I gave a sign it would be
myself. You may be sure I gave no sign. What's the good? I hold the
belief that people should not force themselves to human contacts or
relationships which they cannot naturally and without irritation
preserve. I've seen these heroic attempts come to grief so often; in
fact, I don't think I've ever seen one succeed, not even between blood
relations. In the long run they merely pervert and spoil the fibre of
the attempter, without really benefiting the attemptee. Behind healthy
relationships between human beings, or even between human beings and
animals, there must be at least some rudimentary affinity. That's the
tragedy of poor little souls like Em'leen. Where on earth can they find
the affinity which makes life good? The very fact that they must worship
is their destruction. It was a soldier--or so they said--who had brought
her to her first grief; I had seen her adoring the judge at the trial,
then the handsome uniformed Sister. And I, as the village doctor, was a
sort of tin-pot deity in those parts, so I was very careful to keep my
manner to her robust and almost brusque.

"And then one day I passed her coming from the post office; she was
looking back, her cheeks were flushed, and she was almost pretty. There
by the inn a butcher's cart was drawn up. The young butcher, new to our
village (he had a stiff knee, and had been discharged from the Army),
was taking out a leg of mutton. He had a daredevil face; and eyes that
had seen much death. He had evidently been chatting with her, for he was
still smiling, and even as I passed him he threw her a jerk of the h