Keith Kenyon had never been a money-worshiper; but he had fully realized the importance of wealth and position, and he had been reared to believe himself Bernard Dane's heir. It seemed to him now that the end of the world had come.
He entered the stables and ordered his horse saddled. It was a new purchase, a splendid thoroughbred, black as night, and well named Satan. In his mad desire for excitement, Keith believed that he could quench the fire which was burning in his brain. He sprang into the saddle when the groom led Satan forth, and whirled madly away, flying like the wind. On he went through the most unfrequented streets of the city. On, on, the horse growing wilder and more ungovernable every moment. In the lower part of the city it came to grief. Foam-flecked, wild-eyed, it dashed into a narrow, stone-paved street and threw its rider violently to the ground, upon the sharp paving-stones.
[CHAPTER XXVIII.]
BEATRIX SEES THE GAME.
They were very busy that day in the ward of hopeless cases. Beatrix had not had a moment to rest. All day long the tired little feet were running here and there in obedience to the nurse's call, the deft fingers rolled bandages, smoothed fever-scorched pillows, bathed throbbing temples, held cooling drinks to fever-parched lips; in short, accomplished the one thousand and one acts which soothe the sufferer and comfort even the dying. The office of nurse is truly a grand one. What more noble position can a woman fill than that of comforter and consoler, to help ease the pain of serious illness, and, if it can not be assuaged, to do all that human power can do to help the poor sufferer bear the awful suffering that is his doom! So Beatrix, feeling that she had found her life-work, found it in this strange way, and at the very crisis of her life, when she had been on the point of despairing, feeling that, at all events, she had found employment for the present, which would help to deaden her pain, worked away with a will, and was soon looked upon as one of the most efficient and willing assistants attached to the Home.
Today they had been overworked, for there had been an accident—a falling building had crushed and mangled several poor creatures a few blocks away; and a number of the sufferers had been carried to the Home, there to linger for a time in awful agony and then pass away. Beatrix grew heart-sick as she gazed upon the suffering around her, her gentle heart touched inexpressibly by the scenes and sounds, the groans, and cries, and moans; and in some cases—more touching than any other—there was quiet patience, brave heroism; there were those—real heroes—who set their teeth hard together over the groans that would try to force themselves through, and bore stoically the tortures of the lost.
The sun set upon that busy day, a day never to be forgotten by Beatrix Dane, never while she lived. The sun had set and twilight was coming down, and all alone in the ward for hopeless cases, Beatrix bent over the haggard face of an old woman—a coarse-featured, hard-handed old creature—who while intoxicated, had fallen under the wheels of a passing cab, and had been carried to the Home, which chanced to be nearer than the charity hospital. Beatrix was bathing the woman's brow with Cologne water, speaking gentle, kindly words of sympathy all the time, when a voice spoke her name, a voice which always had an influence over Beatrix, and which she had learned to love dearly—Sister Angela's. Beatrix turned as the sister laid her hand upon her arm.
"My dear," the kind voice went on, gently, "you are overworked; you have done too much today for a novice; you must rest now. Go down to the little sitting-room and you will find some tea there. Yes, I insist upon it. I will take your place here."