years of physical and mental indolence.




CHAPTER VIII

LEARNING TO EAT


It was three in the early July afternoon. The large parlor, which had
been turned into a bedroom, was darkened by closely-drawn shades; a
dim, softened light coming from a half-hidden lamp deepened the dark
rings around the worn nurse's eyes--eyes which bespoke sleepless
nights and a heavy heart. A wan mother stood near the nurse, every
line of her face showing the pain of lengthened anxiety. Tensely one
hand held the other, the restraint of culture, only, keeping her from
wringing them in her anguish. Dr. Harkins, the village physician,
stood at the foot of the bed, his honest face set in strong lines in
anticipation of the worst. Many scenes of suffering had rendered him
only more sympathetic with human sorrow, sympathetic with the real,
increasingly intolerant of the false. At the bed-side stood the
expert, who had come so far, at so great an expense-long, rough miles
by auto that a few hours might be saved-who had come, they all
believed, to decide the fate of the beloved girl who lay so death-like
before them.

Ruth Rivers was the only one in the room who was not keenly alert or
distressingly tense. Even in her waxy whiteness and unnatural
emaciation, her face was good. The forehead was high and, with the