She turned and left the room, waiting patiently, humbly in the hall outside the library door, straining her ears to catch a sentence here and there from the murmurs of the doctors’ voices, and as she waited she prayed, over and over and over again. “Don’t take her from me, God! Don’t! Don’t! Don’t take her! Don’t take her!”
They found her there when at last the door opened and the two physicians stepped into the hall with Nellie between them. At the sound of the opening door she turned and looked straight into Dr. Crossett’s eyes. Judges on the bench have seen such a look on the face of poor, desperate creatures, waiting for the words that would mean life or death.
From one face to the other her eyes turned, at first not daring to read, not daring to credit what she seemed to see.
“You tell the doctor at the dispensary,” Dr. Crossett’s voice was husky, but his face beamed with triumph, “that he happens to be a jackass. You tell him that I, Dr. Paul Crossett, will make this child’s arm as good as new!”
“Oh, no! I don’t ask that, Doctor. Just help her a little.”
“I will cure her. I give you my word.”
“Is it true?” She turned to Dr. Barnhelm, not daring to believe.
“Yes. It is true.”
“Gentlemen!” She was not without dignity as she faced them, her arms about her daughter. “You can’t expect a woman like me to know how to thank you. I can’t ever pay you, not with money, or with words. All I can ever do is—is to pray for you.”
“That,” replied Dr. Crossett, with the bow he usually reserved for the greatest ladies of his own brilliant world, “that is not often done. It is enough.”