talked to Dr. Stewart in low, swift tones. Dot caught the word "anesthetic." She hadn't wanted anesthetic, had vowed she wouldn't take it. Now she longed for it, prayed for it.
"How are your pains now?" asked Dr. Stewart, gazing gravely down at her. "Are you hardly getting rid of one when another comes?"
Dot nodded miserably. Miss Brown raised Dot's feet and placed them in little stirrups that hung above the table. The position was a torture. She could no longer roll about in her pains, she could only wriggle and squirm and slip off the padded place in the center of the table where she was supposed to lie.
Miss Lambert and Miss Harris took places on either side of her. Miss Lambert gave her hand to Dot. It was a small hand. A hand that had gone again and again into the bottomless pit of agony to offer comfort. Dot clutched it with insane strength. She dug her nails into it, scratched it, squeezed it, and tugged at it until it seemed that the little hand must leave its wrist. It was a fighting hand. It, too, tugged, and Dot drew solace from its strength. I'll was warm and sympathetic.
She looked at Miss Lambert's face. It was a young face, a face surrounded with a gay little flare of silky hair.
"Oh, you don't know— You don't know what I'm going through," Dot breathed.
Miss Lambert made no answer. Her eyes were soft and looked as though they could weep for Dot's pain.
"Yes, you know, I guess," said Dot. "But it's terrible—oh, it's terrible."
The great light beat down on her ceaslessly. A white laugh.
"Oh, the heat, the heat," Dot cried. She was weltering in perspiration. She tossed her head in her torture, clutched
