And while she had been idling in the country, this man, whom she had known since her girlhood better and longer than any of her few acquaintances, had been struck down, and day by day had weakened and sickened and wasted, until now, at any hour, at any moment, the life might be snuffed out like the fight of a spent candle.  What a miserable incompetent had she been!  That day in the park when she had come upon him, so weak and broken and far spent, why had she not, with all her training and experience, known that even then the flame was flickering down to the socket, that a link in the silver chain was weakening?  Now, perhaps, it was too late.  But quick her original obstinacy rose up in protest.  No! she would not yield the life.  No, no, no; again and a thousand times no!  He belonged to her.  Others she had saved, others far less dear to her than Ferriss.  Her last patient—­the little girl—­she had caught back from death at the eleventh hour, and of all men would she not save Ferriss?  In such sickness as this it was the nurse and not the doctor who must be depended upon.  And, once again, never so strong, never so fine, never so glorious, her splendid independence, her pride in her own strength, her indomitable self-reliance leaped in her breast, leaped and stood firm, hard as tempered steel, head to the Enemy, daring the assault, defiant, immovable, unshaken in its resolve, unconquerable in the steadfast tenacity of its purpose.

The story that Ferriss had told to Bennett, that uncalled-for and inexplicable falsehood, was a thing forgotten.  Death stood at the bed-head, and in that room the little things of life had no place.  The king was holding court, and the swarm of small, everyday issues, like a crowd of petty courtiers, were not admitted to his presence.  Ferriss’ life was in danger.  Lloyd saw no more than that.  At once she set about the work.

In a few rapid sentences exchanged in low voices between her and the doctor Lloyd made herself acquainted with the case.

“We’ve been using the ice-pack and wet-pack to bring down the temperature in place of the cold bath,” the doctor explained.  “I’m afraid of pericarditis.”

“Quinine?” inquired Lloyd.

“From twenty to forty grains in the morning and evening.  Here’s the temperature chart for the last week.  If we reach this point in axilla again—­” he indicated one hundred and two degrees with a thumb-nail—­“we’ll have to risk the cold bath, but only in that case.”

“And the tympanites?”

Dr. Pitts put his chin in the air.

“Grave—­there’s an intestinal ulcer, no doubt of it, and if it perforates—­well, we can send for the undertaker then.”

“Has he had hemorrhages?”

“Two in the first week, but not profuse—­he seemed to rally fairly well afterward.  We have been injecting ether in case of anemia.  Really, Miss Searight, the case is interesting, but wicked, wicked as original sin.  Killed off my first nurse out of hand—­good little boy, conscientious enough; took no care of himself; ate his meals in the sick-room against my wishes; off he went—­dicrotic pulse, diarrhea, vomiting, hospital, thrombosis of pulmonary artery, pouf, requiescat.”