This was the house-physician, who was to take charge of the case; a young man, handsome and rather dapper. He went about his work with an air of its being an old story to him--an air which was at once reassuring and disturbing. The two sat and watched him, while he made his preparations. He had two white-gowned nurses with him, and he spoke to them for the most part in nods. One of them was elderly and grey-haired, and apparently his main reliance; the other was young and pretty, and her heart went out to Corydon. She sat by the bedside and confided to her that she was a pupil, and that this was only her third “case”. “Will it hurt me much?” the girl asked, weakly. And then suddenly, before there was time for an answer, she turned white, and clutched Thyrsis’ hand with a low cry. “What’s the matter?” he whispered. Her fingers closed upon his convulsively, and she started up, crying aloud. The doctor was standing by the window, opening a case of instruments. He did not even turn. “Doctor!” Thyrsis cried, in alarm. He put the case down and came toward the bed. “I guess there is nothing wrong,” he said, with a slight smile. He laid his hand upon the shuddering girl. “It is all right,” he said, “I shall examine her in a few moments.” He turned away, while Thyrsis and the young nurse held Corydon’s hand and whispered to her soothingly. She sank back and lay tossing from side to side, moaning; and meantime the doctor went quietly on, arranging his basins and bottles, and giving his orders. Then finally he came and made his examination. “She is doing very well,” he said, “and now, Miss Mary, I have an engagement for the theatre for this evening. I think there will be no need of me for some hours.” Thyrsis started, aghast. “Doctor!” he cried. “What is it?” asked the other. “Something might happen!” he exclaimed. “I shall be only two or three blocks away,” was the reply--“They will send for me if there is need.” “But this pain!” cried Thyrsis, excitedly. “What is she to do?” The man stood by the bedside, washing his hands. “You cannot have a child-birth without pain,” he said. “These are merely false pains, as we call them; the real birth-pains may not come for hours--perhaps not until morning. There are membranes which have to be broken, and muscles which have to be stretched--and there is no way of doing it but this way.” He stood with his hand on the doorknob. “Do not be worried,” he said. “Whatever happens, the attendant will know what to do.” “The theatre!” It seemed so strange! To be sure, it was unreasonable--if a man had several cases each week to attend to, he could not be expected to suffer with each one. But at least he need not have mentioned the theatre! It gave one such a strange feeling of isolation!