Then
by telling Freckles that the Angel was asleep and they would waken her
the moment he moved, they were able to control him for a short time.
The surgeon was with Freckles. The Angel had been told that the word
he brought that morning would be final, so she curled in a window seat,
dropped the curtains behind her, and in dire anxiety, waited the opening
of the door.
Just as it unclosed, McLean came hurrying down the hall and to the
surgeon, but with one glance at his face he stepped back in dismay;
while the Angel, who had arisen, sank to the seat again, too dazed to
come forward. The men faced each other. The Angel, with parted lips and
frightened eyes, bent forward in tense anxiety.
"I--I thought he was doing nicely?" faltered McLean.
"He bore the operation well," replied the surgeon, "and his wounds are
not necessarily fatal. I told you that yesterday, but I did not tell you
that something else probably would kill him; and it will. He need not
die from the accident, but he will not live the day out."
"But why? What is it?" asked McLean hurriedly.
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