And out of that dull gray abyss a woman's voice
broke sharply, on the stillness, in a scream of pain.
"Dat's her, dat's de po'r gal, now, nurse. Up dare where yo' sees dat
light."
Uncle George brought the big black to a stand in front of the ancient
town-hall and court-house, a two-story, frame building with the stairway
on the outside. A group of negroes huddled--with awed faces--at the foot
of the stairs drew back as the nurse sprang from the buggy and ran
lightly up the shaky old steps. The narrow, dirty hallway was crowded
with more negroes. The odor of the place was sickening.
Miss Farwell pushed her way through and entered the room where Dr. Harry,
assisted by a big black woman, was holding his struggling patient on the
bed. The walls and ceiling of the room--stained by the accumulated smoke
of years, the rough bare floor, the window--without shade or curtain, the
only furniture--a rude table and a chair or two, a little stove set on
broken bricks, a handful of battered dishes and cooking utensils, a
trunk, and the bed with its ragged quilts and comforts, all cried aloud
the old, old familiar cry of bitter poverty.
Dr. Harry glanced up as the nurse entered.
"Carbolic acid," he said quietly, "but she didn't get quite enough. I
managed to give her the antidote and a hypodermic. We better repeat the
hypodermic I think."
Without a word the nurse took her place at the bedside. When the patient,
under the influence of the drug, had grown more quiet, Dr.
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