by circumstances.
The fever nurse had heard of Ferriss's death early in the afternoon, and
supposed, of course, that Lloyd had left the case _after_, and not
before, it had occurred. This was the story the other nurses would
believe. Instantly, in the flood of grief and remorse and humiliation
that had overwhelmed her, Lloyd caught at this straw of hope. Only Dr.
Pitts and Bennett knew the real facts. Bennett, of course, would not
speak, and Lloyd knew that the physician would understand the cruelty
and injustice of her situation, and because of that would also keep
silence. To make sure of this she could write him a letter, or, better
still, see him personally. It would be hard to tell him the truth. But
that was nothing when compared with the world's denunciation of her.

If she had really been false to her charge, if she had actually flinched
and faltered at the crucial moment, had truly been the coward, this
deception which had been thrust upon her at the moment of her return to
the house, this part which it was so easy to play, would have been a
hideous and unspeakable hypocrisy. But Lloyd had not faltered, had not
been false. In her heart of hearts she had been true to herself and to
her trust. How would she deceive her companions then by allowing them to
continue in the belief of her constancy, fidelity, and courage? What she
hid from them, or rather what they could not see, was a state of things
that it was impossible for any one but herself to understand. She could
not--no woman could--bring herself to confess to another woman what had
happened that day at Medford. It would be believed that she could have
stayed at her patient's bedside if she had so desired. No one who did
not know Bennett could understand the terrible, vast force of the man.

Try as she would, Lloyd could not but think first of herself at this
moment. Bennett was ignored, forgotten. Once she had loved him, but that
was all over now. The thought of Ferriss's death, for which in a manner
she had been forced to be responsible, came rushing to her mind from
time to time, and filled her with a horror and, at times, even a
perverse sense of remorse, almost beyond words. But Lloyd's pride, her
self-confidence, her strength of character and independence had been
dearer to her than almost anything in life. So she told herself, and, at
that moment, honestly believed. And though she knew that her pride had
been humbled, it was not gone, and enough of it