use for running my remoter errands. I found a man nearly dying from a bad
septic wound of his right arm. I judged that he might possibly survive an
amputation, but that the loss of the breadwinner's limb would have been
just as bad, as far as his family was concerned, as the death of the
patient. There was nothing to do but grit one's teeth and take chances. I
remained with him throughout the night, and in the morning was glad to
detect some slight improvement.

The keen breeze that expanded my lungs as I sat on the rocks did me a
great deal of good. It rested me after the dreary vigil and presently I
returned to my patient. I'm afraid that we men are poor nurses. We can
keep on fighting and struggling and trying, but when we have to sit still
and watch with folded arms the iron enters our souls, while the
consciousness of helpless waiting is after all the bitterest thing we can
contend against. Women are far more patient and enduring.

Constantly I renewed the dressings, and bathed the limb in antiseptics,
and gave a few stimulating drugs. Then I would watch the man's hurried
breathing and feverish pulse. But I could not remain with idle hands very
long at a time, and frequently strolled out to breathe the sea-scented
air, in some place well to windward of the poor little fishhouses that
reeked infamously with the scattered offal of cod. A disconsolate man was
trying to mend a badly frayed net and a few ragged children, gaunt and
underfed, followed me about, curiously, whispering among themselves.

The sick man's wife sat most of the time, near the bed, hour after hour,
a picture of intense, stolid misery. From time to time she wailed because
there was no more tea. Always she hastened to obey my slightest request,
clumsily, faithfully, like some humble dog to which some hard and
scarcely understood task might have been given. One could see that she