The Street was very fond of Dr. Ed. It did not always approve of him. It said--which was perfectly true--that he had sacrificed himself to his brother's career: that, for the sake of that brilliant young surgeon, Dr. Ed had done without wife and children; that to send him abroad he had saved and skimped; that he still went shabby and drove the old buggy, while Max drove about in an automobile coupe. Sidney, not at all of the stuff martyrs are made of, sat in the scented parlor and, remembering all this, was ashamed of her rebellion. “I'm going into a hospital,” said Sidney. Dr. Ed waited. He liked to have all the symptoms before he made a diagnosis or ventured an opinion. So Sidney, trying to be cheerful, and quite unconscious of the anxiety in her voice, told her story. “It's fearfully hard work, of course,” he commented, when she had finished. “So is anything worth while. Look at the way you work!” Dr. Ed rose and wandered around the room. “You're too young.” “I'll get older.” “I don't think I like the idea,” he said at last. “It's splendid work for an older woman. But it's life, child--life in the raw. As we get along in years we lose our illusions--some of them, not all, thank God. But for you, at your age, to be brought face to face with things as they are, and not as we want them to be--it seems such an unnecessary sacrifice.” “Don't you think,” said Sidney bravely, “that you are a poor person to talk of sacrifice? Haven't you always, all your life--” Dr. Ed colored to the roots of his straw-colored hair. “Certainly not,” he said almost irritably. “Max had genius; I had--ability. That's different. One real success is better than two halves. Not”--he smiled down at her--“not that I minimize my usefulness. Somebody has to do the hack-work, and, if I do say it myself, I'm a pretty good hack.” “Very well,” said Sidney. “Then I shall be a hack, too. Of course, I had thought of other things,--my father wanted me to go to college,--but I'm strong and willing. And one thing I must make up my mind to, Dr. Ed; I shall have to support my mother.” Harriet passed the door on her way in to a belated supper. The man in the parlor had a momentary glimpse of her slender, sagging shoulders, her thin face, her undisguised middle age. “Yes,” he said, when she was out of hearing. “It's hard, but I dare say it's right enough, too. Your aunt ought to have her chance. Only--I wish it didn't have to be.” Sidney, left alone, stood in the little parlor beside the roses. She touched them tenderly, absently. Life, which the day before had called her with the beckoning finger of dreams, now reached out grim insistent hands. Life--in the raw. CHAPTER III K. Le Moyne had wakened early that first morning in his new quarters. When he sat up and yawned, it was to see his worn cravat disappearing with vigorous tugs under the bureau. He rescued it, gently but firmly.