The doctors returned to the bedside.
"Very well, we will not use the gas," said one. "You are a brave little woman, after all. There, be still—very still."
One of the doctors was tearing linen into strips for bandages, while the other fixed Mercy's head to suit the light.
There was a faint sound from the kitchen. "Wait," said Mercy. "That is father—he's crying. Tell him not to cry. Say it's nothing."
She laughed a weak little laugh.
"There, he will hear that; go and say it was I who laughed."
Greta left the room on tiptoe. Old Matthew was still sitting over a dying fire, gently rocking the sleeping child. Parson Christian's eyes were raised in prayer.
When Greta returned to the bedroom, Mercy called her, and said very softly—"Let me hold your hand, Greta—may I say Greta?—there," and her fingers closed on Greta's with a convulsive grasp.
The operation began. Mercy held her breath. She had the stubborn north-country blood in her. Once only a sigh escaped. There was a dead silence.
In two or three minutes the doctor said: "Just another minute, and all will be over."