I was conscious that she was speaking
to me; I was also conscious of her child's
eyes watching me; but while she spoke and
the child watched, I was arranging for the
operation, the when, the how, all the details.
There were difficulties in my way,
obstacles to be surmounted. I was not at all
sure of winning Dr. Fearnwell's consent
that this child should be the first subject
upon which the new operation should be
tried. Dr. Fearnwell had said, I remembered,
"We must first try this on some coarsely-
born child, some child of robust peasant
parents: some child, too, who, should its
life be sacrificed, would be, poor little
wretch! no loss, and no great loser."

I had more faith in Dr. Fearnwell always,
than Dr. Fearnwell had in himself. I had,
also, more faith in science than the more
experienced man had. Besides this, Dr.
Fearnwell was of extreme sensitiveness and
tender-heartedness; his hand could be
firmer than any, and his courage cooler,
but he required first to be convinced of the
unquestionable beneficence of the torture
he inflicted.

Dr. Fearnwell's seeing this child beforehand
would be a risk (when I looked at it
with Dr. Fearnwell's eyes, I recognised its
extreme fragility), but his hearing the
mother speak of it, and of its extreme
preciousness to her, would be fatal. He would
warn, and question, and caution, till the
woman's courage would fail; he would
think it better that the widow should keep
her lame child, than run the risk of losing
it to cure its lameness. He was quite capable
of telling her that this lameness would not
kill, and that the attempt to cure it might;
and then how could one expect a poor,
weak, selfish woman to decide?

Once interested in the woman, Dr. Fearnwell
would think nothing of the glory to
science, and the gain to the human race,
of successful operation, compared with the
loss to this woman if she should lose her
child.

This "weakness" (so I thought it) of
Dr. Fearnwell's filled me with something
as like contempt as it was possible for me
to feel towards one who was my hero.
Against it, I determined as far as possible
to protect him. Though I had no
consciousness that the child's eyes touched
me, I knew how they would appeal to Dr.
Fearnwell.

While the mother talked, therefore, I was
scheming and contriving. I received the
sounds of her words on my ear, and they
conveyed corresponding ideas to my brain;
for afterwards I knew things she then,
and only then, told me. But at the time
I heard without hearing, in the same way
that we often see without seeing, things
that vividly reproduce themselves
afterwards.

"When can it be done?"

That question brought her speaking and
my thinking to a pause.

"Do you stay here long?"

"Not longer than is needful for my
child. I am poor. It is dear living in a
strange place. But anything that is needful
for my child is possible."

"If it can be done at all, it shall be done
within the week."

"' If it can be done at all!' You said it
could be done; you said it should be done."

The way in which this was said, the
look in the eyes with which it was said,
revealed something of the stormy
possibilities of this woman's nature.

"I spoke with indiscreet haste when I
said it could and should be done. There
are many difficulties."

I then explained the nature of those
difficulties in the manner I thought most
politic, and most calculated to induce her to
connive with me in overcoming them. I
dwelt much on the morbid over-sensitiveness
which would paralyse the hand of the
good doctor, were she to speak to him as
she had spoken to me about the extreme
preciousness of her child.

She studied my face with a new
intensity; then she said:

"He need know nothing about me. I
need not see him till all is arranged. The
child can, for him, be anybody's child."

"Exactly what I would desire. I am
glad to find you so sensible. Bring the
child here to-morrow morning, at ten."

White to the lips again, she faltered:

"You don't mean that it will be done
to-morrow?"

"No, no, no. No such luck as that," I
answered, impatiently. " There are
preliminaries to be gone through. The child
will have to be examined by a council of
surgeons. All that is nothing to you.
Bring her to me, here, at ten to-morrow.
That is all I ask of you. This is my
name"—giving her a card—" You know
from the superscription of the note you
brought me, that my name is Bertram
Dowlass. You may trust me to do the best
I can for you."

She rose to take leave.

The quiet intensity of her gratitude, and
her implicit, patient belief in me, did not