At last a step—a knock—her father's voice: "Lenore—come!"
Her ordeal of waiting was over. All else she could withstand. That moment ended her weakness. Her blood leaped with the irresistable, revivifying current of her spirit. Unlocking the door, Lenore stepped out. Her father stood there with traces of extreme worry fading from his tired face. At sight of her they totally vanished.
"Good! You've got nerve. You can see him now alone. He's unconscious. But he's not been greatly weakened by the trip. His vitality is wonderful. He comes to once in a while. Sometimes he's rational. Mostly, though, he's out of his head. An' his left arm is gone."
Anderson said all this rapidly and low while they walked down the hall toward the end room which had not been used since Mrs. Anderson's death. The door was ajar. Lenore smelled strong, pungent odors of antiseptics.
Anderson knocked softly.
"Come out, you men, an' let my girl see him," he called.
Doctor Lowell, the village practitioner Lenore had known for years, tiptoed out, important and excited.
"Lenore, it's to bad," he said, kindly, and he shook his head.
Another man glided out with the movements of a woman. He was not young. His aspect was pale, serious.
"Lenore, this is Mr. Jarvis, the nurse.… Now—go in, an' don't forget what I said."