The little nurse at the foot of the patient, who was not impressed by the irregularity of the surgeon's request, pointed mutely to the figure behind the ward tenders. The surgeon wheeled about and glanced almost savagely at the woman, his eyes travelling swiftly from her head to her feet. The woman thus directly questioned by the comprehending glance returned his look freely, resentfully. At last when the surgeon's eyes rested once more on her face, this time more gently, she answered: "I am his wife." This statement in some way humanized the scene. The ward tenders and the interne stared at her blankly; the nurses looked down in unconscious comment on the twisted figure by their side. The surgeon drew his hands from his pockets and stepped toward the woman, questioning her meanwhile with his nervous, piercing glance. For a moment neither spoke, but some kind of mute explanation seemed to be going on between them. She kept her face level with his, revealing it bravely, perhaps defiantly. Its tense expression, with a few misery-laden lines, answered back to the inquiry of the nonchalant outsiders: 'Yes, I am his wife, _his_ wife, the _wife_ of the object over there, brought here to the hospital, shot in a saloon brawl.' And the surgeon's face, alive with a new preoccupation, seemed to reply: 'Yes, I know! You need not pain yourself by telling me.' The patient groaned again, and the surgeon came back at once to the urgent present--the case. He led the way to one side, and turning his back upon the group of assistants he spoke to the woman in low tones. "This man, your husband, is pretty badly off. He's got at least two bullets in bad places. There isn't much chance for him--in his condition," he explained brusquely, as if to reconcile his unusual procedure with business-like methods. "But I should operate," he continued; "I shall operate unless there are objections--unless you object." His customary imperious manner was struggling with a special feeling for this woman before him. She did not reply, but waited to hear where her part might come in. Her eyes did not fall from his face. "There's a chance," the surgeon went on, "that a certain operation now will bring him around all right. But to-morrow will be too late." His words thus far had something foolish in them, and her eyes seemed to say so. If it was the only chance, and his custom was to operate in such cases,--if he would have operated had she not been there, why did he go through this explanation? "There may be----complications in his recovery," he said at last, in low tones. "The recovery may not be complete."