"A drop or two if he
moves," he said.
Then Horace Clay, the man with a man's mistakes, his
fears, his heart-burnings, was gone, and in his place
stood Horace Clay, the doctor, keen, alert, masterful,
indomitable, with the look of battle on his face. He
worked rapidly, never faltering; his eyes burning with
the joy of the true physician who fights to save, to save
a human life from the grim old enemy, Death.
"You have saved his life, Pearl," the doctor said two
hours later. Arthur lay sleeping easily, the flush gone
from his face, and his breath coming regularly.
The doctor put his hand gently on her tumbled little
brown head.
"You saved him from death, Pearl, and me--from something
worse."
And then Pearl took the doctor's hand in both of hers,
and kissed it reverently.
"That's for Thursa," she said, gravely.
Tom was awakened by some one shaking him gently.
"Tom, Tom Motherwell, what are you doing here?"
A woman knelt beside him; her eyes were sweet and kind
and sad beyond expression.
"Tom, how did you come here?" she asked, gently, as Tom
struggled to rise.
He sat up, staring stupidly around him. "Wha' 's a matter?
Where's this?" he asked thickly.
"You're in the sitting-room at the hotel," she said. He
would have lain down again, but she took him firmly by
the arm.
"Come Tom," she said. "Come and have a drink of water."
She led him out of the hotel to the pump at the corner
of the street.
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