“Oh, spare me,” pleaded Cameron. “I acknowledge my sin and my folly is before me. But tell me, how was this miracle wrought?”
“What do you mean exactly? Specify.”
“Oh, hang it! Well, beginning at the top, there's her hair.”
“Her hair?”
“Yes.”
“Then, her complexion—her grace of form—her style—her manner. Oh, confound it! Her hands—everything.”
“Well,” said the little nurse with deliberation, “let's begin at the top. Her hair? A hairdresser explains that. Her complexion? A little treatment, massage, with some help from the doctor. Her hands? Again treatment and release from brutalising work. Her figure? Well, you know, that depends, though we don't acknowledge it always, to a certain extent on—well—things—and how you put them on.”
“Nurse,” said the doctor gravely, “you're all off. The transformation is from within and is explained, as I have said, by one word—soul. The soul has been set free, has been allowed to break through. That is all. Why, my dear fellow,” continued the doctor with rising enthusiasm, “when that girl came to us we were in despair; and for three months she kept us there, pursuing us, hounding us with questions. Never saw anything like it. One telling was enough though. Her eyes were everywhere, her ears open to every hint, but it was her soul, like a bird imprisoned and beating for the open air. The explanation is, as I have said just now, soul—intense, flaming, unquenchable soul—and, I must say it, the dressmaker, the hairdresser, and the rest directed by our young friend here,” pointing to the little nurse. “Why, she had us all on the job. We all became devotees of the Haley Cult.”
“No,” said the nurse, “it was herself.”
“Isn't that what I have been telling you?” said the doctor impatiently. “Soul—soul—soul! A soul somehow on fire.”