"I'm a weak fool, Miss Farwell. No man in my
profession has a right to be so weak."
"Yes, that's it," she said gently. "Your profession--those who depend
upon you for their own lives and the lives of their dear ones--you must
remember that always. Your ministry."
He raised his face and looked at her squarely. "I never did this before.
You believe me, Miss Farwell, that this is the first time?"
She returned his look frankly. "Yes," she said. "I believe you, and I
believe it will be the last."
And it was.
For there was something in that voice, something in the calm still depth
of those gray eyes that remained with Dr. Harry Abbott and whenever
afterwards he reached the limit of his strength, whenever he gave so
much of himself in the service of others that there was nothing left for
himself--this incident came back to him, that something held him--kept
him strong.
Very quickly the nurse changed the subject and led the physician's mind
away from the sadness and horror of his work that had so nearly wrought
such havoc. The big empty house no longer seemed so big and empty. She
made him light his pipe again and soon the man felt his tired nerves
relax while the weary brain ceased to hammer away at the problems it
could not solve.
Then at last she told him why she had come--to bid him good-bye.
"But I thought you were going to stay!" he cried.
"I had thought of doing so," she admitted. "But something--something
makes it necessary for me to go.
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