actually seemed to escape. She put away her hat
and shawl, and stood before the glass, smoothing her hair. "When will
it ever end?" she moaned to the reflection there, rather than to her
mother, who did not interrupt this spiritual ordeal. In another age,
such a New England girl would have tortured herself with inquisition
as to some neglected duty to God;--in ours, when religion is so largely
humanified, this Puritan soul could only wreak itself in a sense of
irreparable wrong to her fellow-creature.

When she went out she met Miss Gleason half-way down the corridor to
Mrs. Maynard's door. The latter had a book in her hand, and came forward
whispering. "She's asleep," she said very sibilantly. "I have read her
to sleep, and she's sleeping beautifully. Have you ever read it?" she
asked, with hoarse breaks from her undertone, as she held up one of
those cheap library-editions of a novel toward Grace.

"Jane Eyre? Why, of course. Long ago."

"So have I," said Miss Gleason. "But I sent and got it again, to refresh
my impressions of Rochester. We all think Dr. Mulbridge is just like
him. Rochester is my ideal character,--a perfect conception of a man:
so abrupt, so rough, so savage. Oh, I like those men! Don't you?" she
fluted. "Mrs. Maynard sees the resemblance, as well as the rest of us.
But I know! You don't approve of them. I suppose they can't be defended
on some grounds; but I can see how, even in such a case as this, the
perfect mastery of the man-physician constitutes the highest usefulness
of the woman-physician. The advancement of women must be as women. 'Male
and female created he them,' and it is only in remembering this that
we are helping Gawd, whether as an anthropomorphic conception or a
universally pervading instinct of love, don't you think?"

With her novel clapped against her breast, she leaned winningly over
toward Grace, and fixed her with her wide eyes, which had rings of white
round the pupils.

"Do tell me!" she ran on without waiting an answer. "Didn't you go with
Mr. Libby because you hoped it might storm, and wished to take the same
risk as Mrs. Maynard? I told Mrs. Alger you did!"

Grace flushed guiltily, and Miss Gleason cowered a little, perhaps
interpreting the color as resentment. "I should consider that a very
silly motive," she said, helplessly ashamed that she was leaving the
weight of the blow upon Miss Gleason's shoulders instead of her own.

"Of course," said Miss Gleason enthus