“Oh, it was a wonderful operation. It seemed almost like performing a miracle, and that blessed old doctor is coming out of the ether like a baby.”
“Maybe it was a miracle—the miracle of a woman’s trust.”
A look of rare tenderness swept into the girl’s face. “Thank you. I wonder if you know how often you say the kindest and most comforting thing.” Then she sobered. “He’s made a brave fight, and it wasn’t easy to pull himself together, in the face of what he knew you were all thinking of him, and do such a tremendous piece of work. I want you to understand. He’s a brilliant surgeon; it didn’t seem right that he should be lost to himself and the profession. And the best of it is, he isn’t going to be. The San is going to stand by him; every doctor on the staff is willing to help him. As soon as Doctor Jefferson is back, Doctor Brainard is to stop work until—until he’s fit again. Isn’t that splendid! Oh, I could sing! I keep saying over those great Hebrew words of comfort, ‘Weeping may tarry through the night, but joy cometh in the morning.’”
“Yes,” said Peter, dully. “I’m glad joy has come for you. May I wish you and Doctor Brainard all success and happiness?”
Sheila’s eyes looked into Peter’s with a sudden intensity. “You may—but not together. Have you actually been thinking that I loved Doctor Brainard?” A hint of the old bitterness crept into her voice. “I can pity a man like that, but love him—love weakness and selfishness—and the willingness to betray a woman’s honor—no! Three years ago he killed whatever personal feeling I might have had for him, and he made me hate all men.”
“And you’re still hating them?” Peter held fast to his rising hopes while he hung eagerly on her answer.
“No. Ever since a fine, strong, unselfish man came into my life it has set me loving all mankind so scandalously that I’m afraid the only way to make me respectable is—for some man to marry me.” Leerie’s arms went out to Peter in complete surrender. “Oh, Peter—Peter—it’s morning!”
But it was almost noon before Peter began to think intelligently again, and then he remembered something, something that ought to be done. “I think,” he said, “I think we ought to go out and tell Hennessy and the swans; we sort of owe it to them.”
And it all ended even as Peter had prophesied in his yarn by Doctor Dempsy’s bedside.