"Myron," whispered Philip, and looked at her pleadingly.
She looked at him—her head sank near his—he kissed her—her lips were trembling. He passed an arm about her shoulder and gave her a tender, reassuring pressure.
"I will know in the morning?" he said.
"Yes," she answered, and turned to leave him. She hesitated at the foot of the bed and then turned toward him again. "Good-night," she said. "Good-night, Philip."
Then she turned and went swiftly from the ward, passing the night nurse at the door.
Hardman felt a moisture on his hand, the hand she had held as she said "Good-night."
"She was crying, bless her, and I never knew it," he thought.
He soon slept. It would seem that he was content so long as Myron made the decision and thus relieved him from the responsibility and consequences of doing so. Well, we cannot tell. "The heart knoweth its own bitterness," and it is not for us to judge Hardman. But whilst withholding judgment upon him we need not spare to pity Myron, who, prone upon the narrow couch in the bare dormitory, was face to face with her own soul.
Whilst Hardman slept, having cast off his burden, she was tasting the bitterness of death. Myron Holder's agony would have indeed bewildered him could he have witnessed it. It was in such strong contrast to the peace of that perfect hour just past. He could not have realized the battle Myron had done with herself, her tears, her fears, whilst she sat by him; and he comforted himself with visions of an illusive future. Alas! Poor Myron—poor Hardman! Not for them was "The House of Fulfillment of Craving," not for them the "Cup with the roses around it."
We cannot trace step by step the progress of the struggle.