“You are right. I have feared the same myself, yet I was as sparing as I dared to be and make sure of your life,” Dr. Hunt replied, with a regretful look into Salome’s white face. “But,” he added, “unless this trouble, that has recently shown itself is arrested at once, I can only predict the worse.” Dr. Winthrop looked deeply distressed. “And I am accountable for it,” he said, in a pained tone. “Tut—tut! You are no more accountable for it than I am—nor so much, perhaps,” responded the physician somewhat sharply, for he keenly felt the responsibility of having consented to accept Salome’s generous sacrifice in that critical experiment. “She would tell you,” he went on, “that no one but herself should be blamed—we did what we thought was best, time was precious, and a longer delay would have been fatal to you; but, Heaven willing, I hope she may be saved even yet. I only wish she had a happy home in this city. She needs constant watching and diversion without excitement, as well as the kind and loving attention of friends.” “She will have to give up her profession as a nurse—she will not be strong enough for such a life,” Dr. Winthrop remarked thoughtfully. “No, at least, not for some time to come; and a great pity it is, too, for a more faithful, conscientious little nurse I never saw,” Dr. Hunt responded, as he administered a second potion to revive the unconscious girl and anxiously watched for its effect. “Where are her friends?” Dr. Winthrop inquired. “I don’t know—I doubt if she has any; but, hush! she is reviving,” was the swift, subdued reply, as Salome slowly unclosed her eyes and heaved a deep sigh. Something of this, however, Salome had heard, indistinctly or as if she had been in a dream; but the meaning of it came to her gradually afterward, when she was able to think over what had occurred, and it filled her with dismay. Atrophy of the heart. She was familiar enough with medical terms to understand what Dr. Winthrop meant, and she knew, also, that there would be no more nursing for her at present, if indeed ever, if their fears should be verified. Must she surrender all her hopes—all her plans? Must she go away from the seclusion of her present retreat—out again into the world from which she had been hiding, away from that haven of safety where she had felt so content, so sure that no one could find her, and where she had begun to feel that she was doing so much good? What could she do? Whither could she turn without a home, or friends to give her the care which she needed?