ir from her forehead, straightened
her cap, tied on the apron she had laid aside....

As she entered Bessy's sitting-room the nurse came out, memoranda in
hand. The two moved to the window for a moment's conference, and as the
wintry light fell on Miss Mace's face, Justine saw that it was white
with fatigue.

"You're ill!" she exclaimed.

The nurse shook her head. "No--but it's awful...this afternoon...." Her
glance turned to the sick-room.

"Go and rest--I'll stay till bedtime," Justine said.

"Miss Safford's down with another headache."

"I know: it doesn't matter. I'm quite fresh."

"You _do_ look rested!" the other exclaimed, her eyes lingering
enviously on Justine's face.

She stole away, and Justine entered the room. It was true that she felt
fresh--a new spring of hope had welled up in her. She had her nerves in
hand again, she had regained her steady vision of life....

But in the room, as the nurse had said, it was awful. The time had come
when the effect of the anaesthetics must be carefully husbanded, when
long intervals of pain must purchase the diminishing moments of relief.
Yet from Wyant's standpoint it was a good day--things were looking well,
as he would have phrased it. And each day now was a fresh victory.

Justine went through her task mechanically. The glow of strength and
courage remained, steeling her to bear what had broken down Miss Mace's
professional fortitude. But when she sat down by the bed Bessy's moaning
began to wear on her. It was no longer the utterance of human pain, but
the monotonous whimper of an animal--the kind of sound that a
compassionate hand would instinctively crush into silence. But her hand
had other duties; she must keep watch on pulse and heart, must reinforce
their action with the tremendous stimulants which Wyant was now using,
and, having revived fresh sensibility to pain, must presently try to
allay it by the cautious use of narcotics.

It was all simple enough--but suppose she should not do it? Suppose she
left the stimulants untouched? Wyant was absent, one nurse exhausted
with fatigue, the other laid low by headache. Justine had the field to
herself. For three hours at least no one was likely to cross the
threshold of the sick-room.... Ah, if no more time were needed! But
there was too much life in Bessy--her youth was fighting too hard for
her! She would not sink out of life in three hours...and Justine could
not count on more than that.

She looke