"A sign—a sign!" she cried in her pain. "Oh, what shall I do?"
It was at midnight when the sign was given her and the path pointed out. The clock in her room had just struck twelve when the electric bell at her bedside rang, summoning her downstairs. She rose hastily, and quickly dashing a little cold water in her face, assumed her cap and hurried out. She found the entire staff of nurses assembling. They were gathering about the medical officer in charge of the hospital. He held a telegram in his hand. When they had all come, he read it aloud. It was brief. An urgent appeal from a quarantine station asking for volunteer nurses for cholera patients. The doctor read it and waited. The little crowd of women before him murmured confusedly. Some faces reddened, some paled. The doctor read the telegram again, and said quietly:
"The need is urgent, but I advise no one. If, however, any of you will go, she must be ready in an hour. The express leaves then."
He paused. There was no answer. His face paled a little. He had been very proud of his intrepid nurses, this doctor, and somehow, in this time of trial, they seemed about to be found wanting.
"As soon as each one makes up her mind," he said, "she will return to her duties or acquaint me with her determination to go."
The group before him parted as if by a single impulse, each seeking to escape unseen to her place. Only one came forward quietly, and said steadily:
"I will go, sir, if you will let me."
The departing ones stayed their steps and listened.
"It is Nurse Myron," they said to each other.
"Yes," said the doctor, catching one of these remarks, "it is Nurse Myron, of whom you have made a pariah. Go back to your duties, please." His voice, usually so gentle, was stern and peremptory. They went.