ow what these scenes are."

Yielding weakly, as he knew, he took the offered chair. But he raised
his hand in refusal of the glass of wine which she had ready for him on
the table, and offered before he could speak.

"But you must," she said, with a smile. "It is the doctor's
prescription."

She did not look like a doctor. She had laid aside the dusty
walking-dress, the business-jacket, the ugly little hat of felt, the
battered reticule. In her simple house costume she was the woman,
homelike, sympathetic, gentle, with the everlasting appeal of the strong
feminine nature. It was not a temptress who stood before him, but a
helpful woman, in whose kind eyes-how beautiful they were in this moment
of sympathy--there was trust--and rest--and peace.

"So," she said, when he had taken the much-needed draught; "in the
hospital you must obey the rules, one of which is to let no one sink in
exhaustion."

She had taken her seat now, and resumed her work. Father Damon was
looking at her, seeing the woman, perhaps, as he never had seen her
before, a certain charm in her quiet figure and modest self-possession,
while the thought of her life, of her labors, as he had seen her now for
months and months of entire sacrifice of self, surged through his brain
in a whirl of emotion that seemed sweeping him away. But when he spoke
it was of the girl, and as if to himself.

"I was sorry to let her go that day. Friendless, I should have known. I
did know. I should have felt. You--"

"No," she said, gently, interrupting him; "that was my business. You
should not accuse yourself. It was a physician's business."

"Yes, a physician--the great Physician. The Master never let the sin
hinder his compassion for the sinner."

To this she could make no reply. Presently she looked up and said: "But
I am sure your visit was a great comfort to the poor girl! She was very
eager to see you."

"I do not know."

His air was still abstracted. He was hardly thinking of the girl, after
all, but of himself, of the woman who sat before him. It seemed to him
that he would have given the world to escape--to fly from her, to fly
from himself. Some invisible force held him--a strong, new, and yet not
new, emotion, a power that seemed to clutch his very life. He could not
think clearly about it. In all his discipline, in his consecration,
in his vows of separation from the world, there seemed to have been
no shield prepared for this. The human asserted its