With her pity and compassion for the sick child there arose in Lloyd a certain unreasoned, intuitive obstinacy, a banding together of all her powers and faculties in one great effort at resistance, a steadfastness under great stress, a stubbornness, that shut its ears and eyes.  It was her one dominant characteristic rising up, strong and insistent the instant she knew herself to be thwarted in her desires or checked in a course she believed to be right and good.  And now as she felt the advance of the Enemy and saw the shadow growing darker across the bed her obstinacy hardened like tempered steel.

“No,” she murmured, her brows levelled, her lips compressed, “she shall not die.  I will not let her go.”

A little later, perhaps an hour after midnight, at a time when she believed Hattie to be asleep, Lloyd, watchful as ever, noted that her cheeks began alternately to puff out and contract with her breathing.  In an instant the nurse was on her feet.  She knew the meaning of this sign.  Hattie had fainted while asleep.  Lloyd took the temperature.  It was falling rapidly.  The pulse was weak, rapid, and irregular.  It seemed impossible for Hattie to take a deep breath.

Then swiftly the expected crisis began to develop itself.  Lloyd ordered Street to be sent for, but only as a matter of form.  Long before he could arrive the issue would be decided.  She knew that now Hattie’s life depended on herself alone.

“Now,” she murmured, as though the Enemy she fought could hear her, “now let us see who is the stronger.  You or I.”

Swiftly and gently she drew the bed from the wall and raised its foot, propping it in position with half a dozen books.  Then, while waiting for the servants, whom she had despatched for hot blankets, administered a hypodermic injection of brandy.

“We will pull you through,” she kept saying to herself, “we will pull you through.  I shall not let you go.”

The Enemy was close now, and the fight was hand to hand.  Lloyd could almost feel, physically, actually, feel the slow, sullen, resistless pull that little by little was dragging Hattie’s life from her grip.  She set her teeth, holding back with all her might, bracing herself against the strain, refusing with all inborn stubbornness to yield her position.

“No—­no,” she repeated to herself, “you shall not have her.  I will not give her up; you shall not triumph over me.”

Campbell was in the room, warned by the ominous coming and going of hushed footsteps.

“What is the use, nurse?  It’s all over.  Let her die in peace.  It’s too cruel; let her die in peace.”

The half-hour passed, then the hour.  Once more Lloyd administered hypodermically the second dose of brandy.  Campbell, unable to bear the sight, had withdrawn to the adjoining room, where he could be heard pacing the floor.  From time to time he came back for a moment, whispering: 

“Will she live, nurse?  Will she live?  Shall we pull her through?”