“Thank Heaven you’re here!” exclaimed the lad. “She—”
“She’s alive yet?” croaked the Fighter.
“Yes, yes! In there,” pointing to a closed door. “Wait!” as Caleb reached the door at a bound. “Dr. Bond is dressing some of her hurts again. He’ll be through in a minute. Then I’ll take you in. Mr. Conover, this is the Reverend Mr. Grant. He has been very, very kind. He helped us lift the wreckage from her, and—”
“Is she goin’ to get well?” demanded Caleb, wheeling about on the clergyman.
“All is being done that mortal skill can do,” answered Mr. Grant with gentle evasion, “The local physician—”
“‘Local physician?’” mocked Caleb. “Here, Hawarden! Sit down there an’ tel’graph to Dr. Hawes an’ Dr. Clay at Granite. Tell ’em to come here in a rush an’ bring along the best nurses they can find. Tel’graph my office in my name to give ’em a Special an’ to clear the tracks for ’em. Tel’graph to Noo York, too, for the best specialists they’ve got. An—”
“I’m afraid, sir” interposed the clergyman, “there is no use in sending to New York. No doctor there could reach Magdeburg—in time.”
“You do’s I say!” Caleb ordered the lad. Then turning fiercely on Mr. Grant he demanded:
“What d’you mean by sayin’ he won’t get here on time? She’s goin’ to get well, if a couple of million dollars worth of med’cal ’tention can cure her. If not—”
“If not, sir,” said the clergyman, speaking tenderly as a father, “we must bear God’s will. For such as she there is no fear. She has the white soul of a child. She will go out of this lesser life of ours borne on the strong arm of Christ. She—”