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.
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."
At the next instant Greta felt her hand held with a grasp of iron.
"Doctor, doctor, I can see you," cried Mercy, and her words came in gusts.