After leaving the outposts of civilization, driving over a rough corduroy road for many miles, we camped on that wild mountain lake in a log-camp; rowed, sailed, fished, swam, tramped, climbed mountains, and, one memorable night, having followed all day the T-lake trail (a blazed trail through the deep forest), slept on a bed of boughs in an open camp. Another night we paddled out with a jacklight and saw a deer feeding among the lily pads—a never-to-be-forgotten sight. How flat and cramped and artificial seemed the city life to which we returned after those care-free days in the woods! But I was soon again absorbed in the routine of practice, and in the human problems confronting me.
One of the saddest things in connection with my practice was the loss of a little patient with capillary bronchitis, a lovely child of three. I had done all I could to save her, had had good counsel, and had fought desperately. The defeat came to me as a terrible blow. I reproached myself for not having relinquished the case, feeling sure it was my incompetency that was at fault; that some other physician might have saved her. The continued confidence which the family showed in me was consoling, but I think many such experiences would have tempted me to abandon medicine entirely.
After the third year of practice, my outlook as a physician, though by no means brilliant, was encouraging. My practice was steadily growing, my interests widening, friends and acquaintances increasing. Economy was still necessary, but I had passed through the trying time when expenses far exceeded income, through that when the income crept up till it equalled expenses, and on to that when it exceeded them. Now each month when Father looked over my books he nodded satisfactorily. To him my success was assured.
At this juncture came an urgent call to leave all that I had gained and engage in an entirely new field of medical work—the care of the insane in a distant part of the state—a branch of medicine toward which I had had a strong leaning in College.
I found myself in an unenviable state of indecision, but the seductive letters of the genial Superintendent at the institution at M—— decided me to go to Albany and take the Civil Service examination, and, that being satisfactorily passed, to go on to M—— on a visit of investigation. The visit was most enjoyable; the new life and work drew me powerfully; the assured salary was a great temptation, promising freedom from financial strain; the friendly physicians I met there—all conspired to make me consent to return there for a trial month, as soon as I could arrange matters in U——.
The weeks that followed were busy and exciting. I cleared up my work as well as I could for the month’s absence, but, not willing to burn my bridges, retained my office. It was gratifying to see that patients and friends were unreconciled, even rebellious, at the possibility of my leaving. My evenings at this time were spent mostly with the Randolphs. I knew I should never meet friends like them again. As the days passed we drew nearer in sympathy; we had grown so in the habit of one another that the thought of separation was painful. Sometimes we sat long together saying little, not daring to trust ourselves to speak; then perhaps she would make a dash at me, hug and kiss me vigorously, and rush from the room, only to rush back again, angry at herself for this betrayal of emotion. Popping her head in the door, she would call to the Doctor:
“Come, Dearie, you better come home, too—before you get to snivelling,”—thus saving the situation.
When we said good-bye, the Doctor told me, haltingly, that he could never hope to express what a help I had been to both of them, and to him in particular—“I think you know it, and have known it, and I don’t know just how I am going to get on without my little ‘psychosister.’”
Although my leaving was ostensibly for a trial month, I felt it was probably the termination of my life in U——. Toward the last, one of the surgeons gave me a farewell dinner, and there were luncheons and teas and cosy little suppers among my intimates. And at length came the night for leaving. I took my last supper in the home of Dr. Wyeth where I had always been so warmly welcomed; and she and a jolly crowd of the Adirondack campers went to the train to see me off. With Dr. Wyeth I parted with the keenest regret; her help and loyalty had been a steady light along my path. I knew I was leaving her the lonelier for my going, but she would say no word to keep me from what looked like increasing good fortune for me.
Alone in the train I gave myself up to a good cry. I could get no sleeper till half the journey was made. As I sat, forlorn and disconsolate, the sole occupant of the car, the train-man came in and sat down at the farther end to eat his midnight lunch. He must have pitied my loneliness, for presently he came toward me carrying his piece of pie on the cover of his dinner-pail, and half-shyly, half-gruffly, placed it on my lap. The act touched me, and the pie seemed to take the lump from my aching throat. And when I carried back the cover, I felt so much lighter hearted that I sat and chatted with him till we came to the junction where I took the sleeper for M——. Early in the morning, on reaching the city, I was welcomed to the large institution where my work has since been for so many years.