Then the stream thins, grows less and less, and less, and gradually ceases. Taking up a glass of fresh water he rinses his mouth of the blood, and standing, looking down at the scarlet flood in the wash-basin, says thoughtfully, but not fearfully:
"This is the second time I have done it. I think I will see Dr. Constant to-morrow."
A tap at the door.
"Mother must not know," he says, and hurriedly laying a large towel over the wash-basin, is sitting comfortably in front of his fire when he calls out:
"Come in."
It is Mrs. Clendenon, just come in from the hospital, her gentle face flushed from walking, a placid smile on her lip.
"Willard, are you here? Gracie and I have but just come in and missed you—why, how pale you are—are you sick?"
"No, not sick. I have but just come in also. I was out walking and came in chilled—have not thawed out yet."
"Oh, Willard, my boy!" she cries, in a horrified tone, "what is that?"