"My good woman, you'd better leave this afternoon."
"Not"—the tone itself was firm, through the shaky sobs—"until there is some one to take my place."
"I'll telegraph for some one. You shan't see her again. But I will see her at once."
Then the woman's training asserted itself. She pulled herself together, with a little shake of self-disgust. "You'll do nothing of the sort. I'll attend to her until I go. It has been a long strain, and, contrary to custom, I've had no time off. I'll telegraph to the Registry myself. And if I can't manage until then, I'll resign my profession." She spoke with sturdy shame.
"That's better." Withrow approved her. "I'm awfully obliged. But honestly, she has got to know. I can't stand it, skulking round, much longer. And no matter what happens to the whole boiling, I'm not going to leave without seeing her."
"I'll tell her." The nurse rose and walked to the barn-door like a heroine. "But you must stay here until I come for you."
"I promise. Only you must come. I give you half an hour."
"I don't need half an hour, thank you." She had recovered her professional crispness. In the wide door she stopped. "It's a pity," she said irrelevantly, "that she can't see how lovely this is." Then she started for the house.
"I believe you," muttered Withrow under his breath.
In five minutes the nurse came back, breathless, half-running. Arnold got up from the chopping-block, startled. He believed for an instant (as he has since told me) that it was "all over." With her hand on her beating heart the woman panted out her words: