The doctor could stay.  The little girl had moved a chair up to the bedside, and sat quite silent, her grimy little hand grasped in the father’s.  Ruth, saying that she hoped the father wouldn’t mind, began to put in order the front room, which the incidents of the night had somewhat disturbed.  Father Damon, holding fast by that little hand to the world of poverty to which he had devoted his life, could not refrain from watching her, as she moved about with the quick, noiseless way that a woman has when she is putting things to rights.  This was indeed a novel invasion of his life.  He was still too weak to reason about it much.  How good she was, how womanly!  And what a sense of peace and repose she brought into his apartment!  The presence of Brother Monies was peaceful also, but hers was somehow different.  His eyes had not cared to follow the brother about the room.  He knew that she was unselfish, but he had not noticed before that her ways were so graceful.  As she turned her face towards him from time to time he thought its expression beautiful.  Ruth Leigh would have smiled grimly if any one had called her beautiful, but then she did not know how she looked sometimes when her feelings were touched.  It is said that the lamp of love can illumine into beauty any features of clay through which it shines.  As he gazed, letting himself drift as in a dream, suddenly a thought shot through his mind that made him close his eyes, and such a severe priestly look came upon his face that the little girl, who had never taken her eyes off him, exclaimed: 

“It is worse?”

“No, my dear,” he replied, with a reassuring smile; “at least, I hope not.”

But when the doctor, finishing her work, drew a chair into the doorway, and sat by the foot of his bed, the stern look still remained on his pale face.  And the doctor, she also was the doctor again, as matter of fact as in any professional visit.

“You are very kind,” he said.

There was a shade of impatience on her face as she replied, “But you must be a little kind to yourself.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“But it does matter.  You defeat the very work you want to do.  I’m going to report you to your order.”  And then she added, more lightly, “Don’t you know it is wrong to commit suicide?”

“You don’t understand,” he replied.  “There is more than one kind of suicide; you don’t believe in the suicide of the soul.  Ah, me!” And a shade of pain passed over his face.

She was quick to see this.  “I beg your pardon, Father Damon.  It is none of my business, but we are all so anxious to have you speedily well again.”

Just then Father Monies returned, and the doctor rose to go.  She took the little girl by the hand and said, “Come, I was just going round to see your father.  Good-by.  I shall look in again tomorrow.”

“Thank you—­thank you a thousand times.  But you have so much to do that you must not bother about me.”