Oldham turned from the
patient, and--throwing over the rough table a cloth of bright
colors--began deftly arranging in such dishes as the place afforded, the
flowers he had brought. Already the perfume of the roses was driving
from the chamber that peculiar, sickening odor of poverty.
The old physician, trained by long years of service to habits of close
observation, noted every detail in the changed room. Silently he watched
the strong, beautifully formed young woman in the nurse's uniform,
bending over his flowers, handling them with the touch of love while on
her face, and in the clear gray eyes, shone the light that a few truly
great painters have succeeded in giving to their pictures of the Mother
Mary.
The keen old eyes under their white brows filled and the Doctor turned
hastily back to the figure on the bed. A worn figure it was--thin and
looking old--with lines of care and anxiety, of constant pain and
ceaseless fear, of dread and hopelessness. Only a faint suggestion of
youth was there, only a hint of the beauty of young womanhood that might
have been; nay that would have been--that should have been.
Miss Farwell started as the old man with a sudden exclamation--stood
erect. He faced the young woman with blazing eyes and quivering face--his
voice shaken with passion, as he said: "Nurse, you and Harry tell me this
is suicide." He made a gesture toward the still form on the bed. "You
will tell the people that this poor child wanted to kill herself, and the
people will call it suicide.
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