It was a cold night. The children sharing the den where their mother lay cursing and groaning cried dismally. They also cried loudly; it seemed worth while with both a row and a doctor. Geoff despatched them to a neighbor’s across the passage, and examined the woman by a guttering candle. She swore horribly, but she was too much engrossed with pain to be afraid; she was also anxious to explain that it was not her man’s fault but another woman’s, whom she called by a variety of names. She was too ill to be moved, and the doctor began with steady gentleness to dress the wounds. He needed a nurse, but he had no time to send for one. The case was urgent. We fight as earnestly for the most apparently useless lives as for the dearest, yet we cannot believe that God has as high a respect for the ultimate fate of the crushed soul’s life as we have to keep breath in a ruined body. It was the doctor’s profession, but it was that least of all that made him fight for her. He looked up and saw Muriel at the door. He felt intensely angry that she should know such a place existed. “I should advise you to go away,” he said coldly. Muriel looked up for a moment, simply astonished, then she advanced towards him and the heap of rags. “I am going to help you,” she said. “You are only in the way,” he replied grimly, not raising his eyes from the patient. “I want a nurse, not—a young lady.” The last words might have been an insult. She flushed angrily. “I can hold her for you,” she said; “I am not afraid.” It was necessary to have some help. “You will faint?” he questioned incredulously. “No, Dr. Grant, I shall not!” said Muriel. He knew by her tone that she was very angry. “Well, then, don’t waste any more time,” was his only reply. In another moment she was down on her knees, obeying short, imperious orders. Dr. Grant never left much to the initiative of his nurses. The sight was almost more repulsive than she could bear. She wanted to cover her face with her hands instead of using them on the awful crushed form. She wanted to scream at the woman’s pain, to rage at the doctor’s cruelty, to fly from this whole world of constant reiterated woe; but she was far too angry even to let her hands tremble. At last she felt that her strength was going; she turned white, cold perspiration stood on her forehead. The doctor glanced at her sharply, and then—he laughed. The hot blood rushed to her heart; she grew rigid now, but not with fear; the noise in her ears ceased. She heard every word he said, anticipated every need, and had not reached the limit of her strength when the doctor released her. “The morphia will keep her quiet till morning,” he said. “You’d better go home.” “Will she live?” she asked him. “Unfortunately—yes,” said Geoff. “Women of that sort generally do—to be beaten again!” They went in silence to the door. Muriel was quite certain now that she disliked him.