The doctors followed into the bedroom. Mercy was lying tranquilly on her bed. Her countenance was without expression. She was busy with her own thoughts. Greta stood by the bedside; anxiety was written in every line of her beautiful, brave face.
"We must give her the gas," said one of the doctors, addressing the other.
Mercy's features twitched.
"Who said that?" she asked, nervously.
"My child, you must be quiet," said the doctor in a tone of authority.
"Yes, I will be quiet, very quiet; only don't make me unconscious," she said. "Never mind me; I will not cry. No; if you hurt me I will not cry out. I will not stir. I will do everything you ask. And you shall say how quiet I have been. Only don't let me be insensible."
The doctors consulted aside, and in whispers.
"Who spoke about the gas? It wasn't you, Mrs. Ritson, was it?"
"You must do as the doctors wish, dear," said Greta in a caressing voice.
"Oh, I will be very good. I will do every little thing. Yes, and I will be so brave. I am a little childish sometimes, but I can be brave, can't I?"