Mona frowned. "I have not the vaguest idea what I shall do at the end of the six months," she said.
"You are taking your books with you?"
"Some old classics and German books, nothing more."
"No medical books?"
"Not one."
Doris sighed deeply.
"Don't be so unhappy, dear. I wish with all my heart you could be a doctor yourself."
"Oh, don't talk of that. It is no use. My father never will give his consent. But you know, dear, I am studying by proxy. I am living in your life. You must not fail me."
"You talk as if suffering humanity could scarcely make shift to get along without me."
"And that is what I think, in a sense. Oh, Mona"—she drew a long breath, and her face crimsoned—"it is so difficult to talk of it even to you. A young girl in my Bible-class went into the Infirmary a few weeks ago—only one case among many—and you should have heard what she told me! Of course I know it was only routine treatment. It would have been the same in any hospital; but that does not make it any better. She said she would rather die than go there again. No fate could have been worse."