o perform an operation that morning. While waiting for the return
train, I called at my father's office and was surprised to hear that
Lizzy was the patient. A painful tumor had developed itself on the back
of her neck, and she had come up with her mother to Boston to consult
Dr. Warren, who had advised its immediate removal.

I went at once to see her. She greeted me with even more than her usual
warmth and after stating in a few words the object of her coming to
Boston and that she was expecting the doctors every moment, she added:
"You will stay with me, I am sure. Mother insists on being present, but
she can not bear it. She will be sure to faint. If you will promise
to stay, I can persuade her to remain in the next room." Seeing the
distress in my face at the request, she said, "I will be very good. You
will have nothing to do but sit in the room, to satisfy mother." It was
impossible to refuse and I remained. There was no chloroform then to
give blessed unconsciousness of suffering and every pang had to be
endured, but she more than kept her promise to "be good." Not a sound or
a movement betrayed suffering. She spoke only once. After the knife was
laid aside and the threaded needle was passed through the quivering
flesh to draw the gaping edges of the wound together, she asked, after
the first stitch had been completed, in a low, almost calm tone, with
only a slight tremulousness, how many more were to be taken. When the
operation was over, and the surgeons were preparing to depart, she
questioned them minutely as to the mark which would be left after
healing. I was surprised that she could think of it at such a moment,
knowing how little value she had always set on her personal appearance,
but her mother explained it afterward by referring to her betrothal to
you, and the fear that you would find the scar disfiguring. [7]

In a letter to Mrs. Stearns, [8] she herself writes, Sept. 6:

I had no idea of the suffering which awaited me. I thought I should get
off as I did the first time. But I have a great deal to be thankful for.
On Wednesday, to my infinite surprise and gladness, George pounced down
upon me from New York, having been quite cut to the heart by the account
mother gave him. Everybody is so kind, and I have had so many letters,
and seen so many sympathising faces, and "dear Lizzy" sounds so sweet
to my insatiable ears; and yet--and yet--I would rather die than live
through the forty-eight hours again