The nurse was anxious, too. Her mother came and regarded her in alarm. But she was thinking of Mr. Harding. He was coming; he might arrive at any moment.
There was a knock upon the door. Corydon’s pulse fluttered, and she whispered, “Here he is!” She could scarcely speak the words, “Come in”. But when the door opened, she saw that it was the doctor. Her heart sank, and she closed her eyes with a moan of pain. Could it be that he was not coming? Could it be that she had been mistaken—that he did not love her after all? She must see him—she must! She could not endure this suspense; she could not endure these interruptions by other people.
The doctor came and sat by her. “I must see what is the matter here,” he said. “Why do you not get well, Corydon?”
He questioned her carefully and looked grave. “I must have a consultation at once,” he said.
Corydon’s hand caught at his sleeve. “No, no!” she whispered.
“Don’t be afraid,” said the doctor. “It won’t hurt.”
“It isn’t that,” said Corydon. She all but added, “I must see Mr. Harding!”
She was wheeled into the operating-room, but this time there was no interest in her eyes as she regarded the smooth table and the shining instruments. As they lifted her upon it, she shuddered. “Oh I cannot, I cannot!” she wailed.
“There, there,” said the doctor. “Be brave. We wish simply to see what the matter is. It won’t take long.”
And they put the cone to her mouth. Corydon struggled and gasped, but it was no use, she was in the clutches of the fiend again; only this time there was no ecstasy, and no vision of Mr. Harding. Instead there was instant and sickening suffocation. Again she descended into the uttermost depths of the inferno; and it seemed as though this time the brave will was not equal to the battle before it.