“You shall have it, if you saw that letter. Dillon will certainly lose his hand—and probably the whole arm.” She spoke with a thrilling of her slight frame that transformed the dispassionate professional into a girl shaken with indignant pity.
Amherst stood still before her. “Good God! Never anything but useless lumber?”
“Never”
“And he won’t die?”
“Alas!”
“He has a consumptive wife and three children. She ruined her health swallowing cotton—dust at the factory,” Amherst continued.
“So she told me yesterday.”
He turned in surprise. “You’ve had a talk with her?”
“I went out to Westmore last night. I was haunted by her face when she came to the hospital. She looks forty, but she told me she was only twenty-six.” Miss Brent paused to steady her voice. “It’s the curse of my trade that it’s always tempting me to interfere in cases where I can do no possible good. The fact is, I’m not fit to be a nurse—I shall live and die a wretched sentimentalist!” she ended, with an angry dash at the tears on her veil.
Her companion walked on in silence till she had regained her composure. Then he said: “What did you think of Westmore?”
[ 13 ]
