"I received eleven orders there today."
"Too bad the young man, the stranger, took sick. You might have gotten a dozen," he said.
"Who took sick?" she inquired, with a start.
"The young man I spoke to you about this morning," explained the physician. "He was carried from the building shortly after you left, with a serious attack of typhoid-pneumonia." He was standing with his back to her when he said this, and, therefore, did not see her start and open her mouth. She swallowed the exclamation, and he was no wiser. Hurrying to her room, she entered, locked the door, and sat down with a wild look in her eyes, plainly frightened.
"Sick," she mumbled. "Typhoid-pneumonia. Oh, merciful God!" She was silent then for a long time. Outside, the rain continued to fall, while in the other rooms she could hear Mrs. Jacques singing softly, as she busied herself in the preparation of the evening meal.
"If I had only known," Mildred whispered to herself. And then she was compelled to dismiss what she was thinking of, as being impractical. She continued to sit and meditate, until she was called to supper by Ernestine. She arose and bathed her face, realizing it would be advisable to appear unconcerned, for, as she now estimated, she would dislike to be questioned.
When the meal was over, she inquired of the physician where the patient had been taken.
"To the charity hospital," he replied.
"I see," she said calmly. "Is that a good place?"
"Oh, the best in the south. The Sisters of Mercy have it largely in charge, and they give the best possible care to all patients—black or white."