Again that queer, far-away voice.
"Look, Miss Merriman. Can you see that neoplasm under the membrane? Ah ... now the flat dissector ... no, the blunter one ..."
The voice trailed away into nothing, and another recalled her failing senses, with the battle cry:
"Rose, another drop of ether."
Then it began again, "Thank heaven, there is no infiltration, the growth is well localized and encapsulated. Steady, steady.... Ah, very pretty."
The word caught her flickering thoughts, and angered her. How could any one use it about anything so awful?
There was another misty moment. Then, "The operation is, in itself, a success, I think.... Now if the child's vitality ... I never did a better one ... another sponge ... excellent ... Are the sutures ready?... Quick, take the ether bottle, Miss Merriman!"
Suddenly the girl felt a painful grasp on her arm. Some one was shaking her roughly.
"Rose," came the same strange voice, "we need some more wood for the fire. Go out to the woodpile, and get some."