o the
conscience of man which Mrs. Eddy maintained was a reflection of
immanent mind. If God were good, He would speak through that--He was
speaking through it. This surgeon referred to that inmost consciousness
of supreme moral law, which alone could guide the practitioner in this
dreadful hour.

Then he told of what implements were necessary, how many assistants
(two), how many nurses (four), the kinds of bandages, needles, silk and
catgut thread, knives, clamp dilators, rubber gloves. He showed how the
cut was to be made--when, where. Eugene closed the book, frightened. He
got up and walked out in the air, a desire to hurry up to Angela
impelling him. She was weak, he knew that. She had complained of her
heart. Her muscles were probably set. Supposing these problems, any one
of them, should come in connection with her. He did not wish her to die.

He had said he had--yes, but he did not want to be a murderer. No, no!
Angela had been good to him. She had worked for him. Why, God damn it,
she had actually suffered for him in times past. He had treated her
badly, very badly, and now in her pathetic little way she had put
herself in this terrific position. It was her fault, to be sure it was.
She had been trying as she always had to hold him against his will, but
then could he really blame her? It wasn't a crime for her to want him to
love her. They were just mis-mated. He had tried to be kind in marrying
her, and he hadn't been kind at all. It had merely produced unrest,
dissatisfaction, unhappiness for him and for her, and now this--this
danger of death through pain, a weak heart, defective kidneys, a
Caesarian operation. Why, she couldn't stand anything like that. There
was no use talking about it. She wasn't strong enough--she was too old.

He thought of Christian Science practitioners, of how they might save
her--of some eminent surgeon who would know how without the knife. How?
How? If these Christian Scientists could only _think_ her through a
thing like this--he wouldn't be sorry. He would be glad, for her sake,
if not his own. He might give up Suzanne--he might--he might. Oh, why
should that thought intrude on him now?

When he reached the hospital it was three o'clock in the afternoon, and
he had been there for a little while in the morning when she was
comparatively all right. She was much worse. The straining pains in her
side which she had complained of were worse and her face was alternately
flushed and