That flint-faced woman in the office had shaken my faith in humanity to such an extent that I did not believe this watchman. I thought he was jollying me. So sure of it that I went back to dabbling my handkerchief in the little pan of water that I had fetched from the bathroom, and tried to make myself as comfortable as might be sitting on the bed with my head propped against the wall. In a surprisingly short time the night-watchman was back again. He had brought me a pitcherful of ice, not a small pitcher either. He explained that he had put the large piece at the bottom so that I might easily get the smaller ones. When I offered him a tip he stepped beyond the reach of my hand, and told me: “My wife’s niece lived in a place like this before she married. One time she took sick and ’most starved to death before she could get us word—nobody come near her for more’n two days. If you want anything just you call when you hear me passing.” For the first time I realized fully the blessing of ice. The little towel being too rough I tore up the softer of my two nighties to get a cloth large enough to cover my face and neck. After several applications of this cloth saturated in ice-cold water, I fell asleep, comforted by the belief that the medicine and ice had come in time to prevent the erysipelas from reaching my eyes. When I waked I could not open my eyes. I distinctly recall that I had no thoughts, no fears—just a stunned feeling. Next I decided that I must not cry—that would not help matters, only lessen the chance of saving my sight, that is, if it could be saved. Then I determined that if I did have to be blind I did not have to be a coward. Groping about I located my little pan and the pitcher. Two pieces of ice still floated in the deliciously cold water, and I proceeded to apply the cloth saturated with the water. As the time wore on I heard alarm-clocks in the rooms about me go off, their owners get up, move about while dressing, then go out, always banging their doors. One by one I listened as their footfalls became less and less distinct and merged into silence. The chambermaids came on. I heard them talking and the clash and thumping of the dustpans and brooms. Finally one came to my room. Without knocking she opened the door, and before I could prevent her turned on the light. I shrieked with pain. Then as automatically heaved a sigh of relief—if light hurt my eyes I could not be totally blind. On learning that I was sick and would make my own bed, the maid turned and was leaving the room. I asked her to turn off the light, and then after an effort inquired if she could get me some cracked ice. She took the pitcher and promised to bring back the ice as soon as she got a “chance.”