"Because," said Harriet Hutchinson—"because I suppose that's one of the things that would 'make it harder for those that stand by.'"
"I don't understand," poor old Annie said, timidly.
"Well, Annie, that's the only reason I know of. Oh, Annie, Annie! it is the only reason there is; it is the root of its being wrong." ... And then the long moan. When Miss Annie heard that sound she shivered all over; it was the elemental protest of the flesh, which cannot understand the regal and unconquered soul.
Those were hard days for Willy King, what with his affection and his sympathy and his daily struggles with Miss Annie; "for she is frantic," he told Dr. Lavendar. They were walking up the hill together in the late afternoon. Miss Harriet had sent for the old man, on whom now she leaned even more than on William King, for Dr. Lavendar gave her granite words instead of Willy's tenderer sympathy. "She insists that I shall give Miss Harriet something—'stuff out of Harriet's bottle,' she says. I suppose she means chloroform. I wish to God I could."
"God will do His own work, William."
"Yes, sir; but it's such a waste—this courage that fairly breaks our hearts."
"Waste! William, what are you talking about? We are every one of us richer for it. I told her so yesterday."
"Well," said William King, thoughtfully, "perhaps so; in this case we are richer, I admit. But suppose it were a baby that was suffering—or a dog? Only, we wouldn't let the dog suffer. Dr. Lavendar, one of these days—you and I won't live to see it, but one of these days—"
"There is Miss Annie now," said Dr. Lavendar. "Why—look at her!"
The old woman came fluttering down the path towards the green gate in the privet hedge; she was smoothing her hair back from her temples, with her strange, girlish gesture, and she was smiling, but there was a new and solemn age in her face that made the two men look at each other, startled and wondering.