Again Harry shook his head. "What's the good?" "But she ought to be told," exclaimed the other. "I know that, Dan. But I can't do it, after urging her, as I did, to stay in Corinth. You are the one to tell her, I am sure." Then, as if to avoid any further discussion of the matter he rose. "You certainly have had enough of this for today, old man. I think I'll prescribe a little music, now, and, if you don't mind, I'll take some of my own prescription. I feel the need." He went to his piano, and for an hour Dan was under the spell. When the last sweet harmony had slipped softly away into the night, the musician sat still, his head bowed. Dan went quietly to his side, and laid a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "Amen!" he said, reverently. "It is a wonderful, beautiful ministry, Doctor. You have given me faith and hope and peace. Thank you!" When his friend had gone, Dr. Harry went back to the piano. Softly, smoothly his fingers moved over the ivory keys. He had played for Dan--he played now for himself. Into the music he put all that he dared not put into words: all the longing, all the pain, all the surrender, all the sacrifice, were there. For again, when the minister had spoken of Miss Farwell the doctor had seen in his friend's face and heard in his voice that which Dan himself did not yet recognize. And Harry had spoken the conviction of his heart when he said, "You are the one to tell her, I am sure." Of this man, too, it might be written, "He saved others; himself he could not save." CHAPTER XXIII. A PARABLE "'And do you think, Grace, that anything in all this beautiful world is of greater importance--of more value to the world--than a human life, with all its marvelous power to think and feel and love and hate and so leave its mark on all life, for all time?'" "Miss Farwell!" The nurse looked up from her sewing in her hands. "What is it, Grace?" "I--I think I will try to find a place today. Mrs. Mulhall told me last night that she had heard of two women who want help. It may be that one of them will take me. I think I ought to try." This was the third time within a few days that the girl had expressed thoughts similar to these. Under the personal care of Miss Farwell she had rapidly recovered from her terrible experience, both physically and mentally, but the nurse felt that she was not yet strong enough to meet a possible rebuff from the community that, before, had shown itself so reluctant to treat her with any degree whatever of consideration or kindness. The girl's spirit had been cruelly hurt. She was possessed of an unhealthy, morbid fear of the world that would cripple her for life if it could not somehow be overcome.