"
"I will, Lovelace Peyton, I will," I answered; but I shuddered, for
how could I stand to see him tortured, as I felt he was going to be?
[Illustration: "You stand right here and tell me how it all looks"]
But I did--and it makes me weak to think about it now so that I shake
all over. As the instruments pried and pulled and injected the aseptic
solutions I held his hand tight and talked as hard as I could. At the
worst places I told the most awful lies about how horrible it looked
and placed all the frightful symptoms of every disease I had read to
him, right in his eyes. It sounded dreadful but I knew that it
interested him and helped in a way nothing else could.
"Go on, Phyllie, tell more," he would groan as I stopped for
breath--and on I would go piling inflammation on suppuration.
Finally, after what seemed an age, the doctor drew a long sigh and
looked up at me with a kindly expression that I knew meant "saved."
For a minute I reeled, and I do believe I would have learned what
fainting meant the same day I learned crying, if those little fingers
hadn't held on to me tight while the doctor gave just a whiff of
chloroform to ease the twitching nerves.
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