And it was.
For there was something in that voice, something in the calm still depth of those gray eyes that remained with Dr. Harry Abbott and whenever afterwards he reached the limit of his strength, whenever he gave so much of himself in the service of others that there was nothing left for himself—this incident came back to him, that something held him—kept him strong.
Very quickly the nurse changed the subject and led the physician's mind away from the sadness and horror of his work that had so nearly wrought such havoc. The big empty house no longer seemed so big and empty. She made him light his pipe again and soon the man felt his tired nerves relax while the weary brain ceased to hammer away at the problems it could not solve.
Then at last she told him why she had come—to bid him good-bye.
"But I thought you were going to stay!" he cried.
"I had thought of doing so," she admitted. "But something—something makes it necessary for me to go."
His arguments and pleadings were in vain. Her only answer was, "I cannot, Dr. Abbott, truly I cannot." Nor would she tell him more than that it was necessary for her to go.
"But we need you so. I need you; there is no one can take your place—Hope—" Then he stopped.
She was frankly permitting him to look deep into her eyes. "I am sorry, Doctor, but I must go." And the strength of her held him and made him strong.
"Just one thing, Miss Farwell. You are not going because of—because of me?"