For thirty-six hours Lloyd had not closed an eye, but of that she had no thought.  Her supper was sent up to her, and she prepared herself for her night’s watch.  She gave the child such nourishment as she believed she could stand, and from time to time took her pulse, making records of it upon her chart for the surgeon’s inspection later on.  At intervals she took Hattie’s temperature, placing the clinical thermometer in the armpit.  Toward nine in the evening, while she was doing this for the third time within the hour, one of the house servants came to the room to inform her that she was wanted on the telephone.  Lloyd hesitated, unwilling to leave Hattie for an instant.  However, the telephone was close at hand, and it was quite possible that Dr. Street had rung her up to ask for news.

But it was the agency that had called, and Miss Douglass informed her that a telegram had arrived there for her a few moments before.  Should she hold it or send it to her by Rownie?  Lloyd reflected a moment.

“Oh—­open it and read it to me,” she said.  “It’s a call, isn’t it?—­or—­no; send it here by Rownie, and send my hospital slippers with her, the ones without heels.  But don’t ring up again to-night; we’re expecting a crisis almost any moment.”

Lloyd returned to the sick-room, sent away the servant, and once more settled herself for the night.  Hattie had roused for a moment.

“Am I going to get well, am I going to get well, Miss Searight?”

Lloyd put her finger to her lips, nodding her head, and Hattie closed her eyes again with a long breath.  A certain great tenderness and compassion for the little girl grew big in Lloyd’s heart.  To herself she said: 

“God helping me, you shall get well.  They believe in me, these people—­’If any one could pull us through it would be Miss Searight.’  We will ‘pull through,’ yes, for I’ll do it.”

The night closed down, dark and still and very hot.  Lloyd, regulating the sick-room’s ventilation, opened one of the windows from the top.  The noises of the City steadily decreasing as the hours passed, reached her ears in a subdued, droning murmur.  On her bed, that had for so long been her bed of pain, Hattie lay with closed eyes, inert, motionless, hardly seeming to breathe, her life in the balance; unhappy little invalid, wasted with suffering, with drawn, pinched face and bloodless lips, and at her side Lloyd, her dull-blue eyes never leaving her patient’s face, alert and vigilant, despite her long wakefulness, her great bronze-red flame of hair rolling from her forehead and temples, the sombre glow in her cheeks no whit diminished by her day of fatigue, of responsibility and untiring activity.

For the time being she could thrust her fear, the relentless Enemy that for so long had hung upon her heels, back and away from her.  There was another Enemy now to fight—­or was it another—­was it not the same Enemy, the very same, whose shadow loomed across that sick-bed, across the frail, small body and pale, drawn face?