her almost irresistible cravings to relieve
suffering.

Ordinary human nature when not in pain was often too repugnant to Molly
for her to be able to do good works in company with other people. She
was, as she had told Edmund Grosse, a born anti-clerical, and she
scorned philanthropists; so her best moods had to work themselves out
alone and without direction. Nor was she likely to spoil the recipients
of her attentions, partly from the strength of her character, partly
because the poor know instinctively whether they are merely the objects
on which to vent a restless longing to relieve pain, or whether they are
loved for themselves.

Molly, in the village at home, had always made the expression of
gratitude impossible, but she constantly added ingratitude as a large
item in the account she kept running, in her darker hours, against the
human race.

Late on a wet and windy October evening she went to undertake the
nursing of Pat Moloney for the first part of the night. She had been
visiting him constantly for several weeks, and actually nursing him for
three days.

"Has the doctor been?"

"Yes, miss" (in a very loud whisper); "he says Pat is awful bad; he left
a paper for you."

Molly Dexter walked across the small, bare room and took a paper of
directions from the chimney-piece, and then stood looking at the old
man's heavy figure on the bed. He was lying on his side, his face turned
to the wall.

"You had better rest in the back room while I am here," she said.

"I couldn't, indeed I couldn't, miss, him being like that; you mustn't
ask me to. Besides, I've been round and asked the priest to come, and so
I couldn't take my things off. I'll just have some tea and a drop of
whisky in it, and I can keep going all the night, it's more than likely
he'll die at the dawn."

Molly eyed the woman with supreme contempt.

"It isn't at all certain that he's going to die, he'll make a good fight
yet if you will give him a chance."

Mrs. Moloney looked deeply offended. It had been all very well to be
guided by a lady at the beginning of the illness, but now it was very
different. She felt half consciously that science had done its worst,
and bigger questions than temperatures and drugs were at issue.

"A priest now," said Molly, in a whisper of intense scorn, "would kill
him at once."

Mrs. Moloney did not condescend to reply. She had propped a poor little
crucifix, a black cross, with a chipped white figure on it