ht be of service
to those all about her who needed help more than she did. She didn't
believe in charity, this stout-hearted, clearheaded little woman; she
meant to make everybody pay for her medical services who could pay; but
somehow her practice was not lucrative, and the little salary she got
as a dispensary doctor melted away with scarcely any perceptible
improvement in her own wardrobe. Why, she needed nothing, going about as
she did.

She sat--now waiting for the end; and the good face, so full of sympathy
for the living, had no hope in it. Just another human being had come
to the end of her path--the end literally. It was so everyday. Somebody
came to the end, and there was nothing beyond. Only it was the end, and
that was peace. One o'clock--half-past one. The door opened softly. The
old woman rose from the foot of the bed with a start and a low "Herr!
gross Gott." It was Father Damon. The girl opened her eyes with a
frightened look at first, and then an eager appeal. Dr. Leigh rose to
make room for him at the bedside. They bowed as he came forward, and
their eyes met. She shook her head. In her eyes was no expectation, no
hope. In his was the glow of faith. But the eyes of the girl rested upon
his face with a rapt expression. It was as if an angel had entered the
room.

Father Damon was a young man, not yet past thirty, slender, erect.
He had removed as he came in his broad-brimmed soft hat. The hair
was close-cut, but not tonsured. He wore a brown cassock, falling in
straight lines, and confined at the waist with a white cord. From
his neck depended from a gold chain a large gold cross. His face was
smooth-shaven, thin, intellectual, or rather spiritual; the nose long,
the mouth straight, the eyes deep gray, sometimes dreamy and puzzling,
again glowing with an inner fervor. A face of long vigils and the
schooled calmness of repressed energy. You would say a fanatic of God,
with a dash of self-consciousness. Dr. Leigh knew him well. They met
often on their diverse errands, and she liked, when she could, to go to
vespers in the little mission chapel of St. Anselm, where he ministered.
It was not the confessional that attracted her, that was sure; perhaps
not altogether the service, though that was soothing in certain moods;
but it was the noble personality of Father Damon. He was devoted to the
people as she was, he understood them; and for the moment their passion
of humanity assumed the same aspect, though