found her there, waiting for me.
“You said you wanted to see some of my drawings,” explained Dorothy, laying a portfolio before me.
“But I didn’t mean to cause you a special trip,” I protested.
She drew out a marine sketch and held it up. I had seen wetter water in pictures, but it was obvious that the girl was a keen observer and had talent. The shadows of the ropes and spars rippled in rhythm with the choppy swells of the breeze-swept harbor. It wasn’t a great picture, but it held out great promise.
“Did you draw that?” I inquired. She nodded. “Didn’t copy it?” I asked. “Sketched it from life?”
“Yes, Doctor. Is it any good?”
“Good? Of course it’s good!”
♦
Well, we had to let James Wickes go from the hospital to a mortuary, as I had ruefully anticipated; though, had he lived, I suspect that his survival would have been of small satisfaction to himself and his family. The next few days were so heavily weighted with serious duties that I had but little time to think about the Wickes family. On the next Sunday afternoon at five, when I was about through with the day’s work, I found Dorothy waiting for me, just outside my office door. I invited her to come in. She sat down on the edge of her chair and tugged nervously at her gloves.
“It’s about one of my girl friends in the store,” she began, without preamble. “I’m so dreadfully sorry for her. She is almost crazy with worry. I want to ask your advice.”
“Is this what I’m afraid it is?” I asked.
Dorothy nodded, and flushed a little. “But she’s a very nice girl, just the same,” she declared loyally.
“Not you, by any chance,” I suggested, looking her squarely in the eyes. But the eyes did not flinch. She shook her head. “That’s good,” I said. “I believe you. Well, go on. Tell me anything you want me to know; though I hope you’re not going to ask me to think of a quick way out of this for your friend, because I am quite definitely not in that line of business.”
“N-no, I wasn’t going to ask that, exactly,” said Dorothy reluctantly, “though of course it would be just awfully sweet of you.” *
Among Doctor Hudson’s papers I found the notes of an address he had delivered before the State Medical Association on March 9, 1914, the subject of which may have been inspired by this conversation. In his address. Doctor Hudson states it is his belief that many young persons, confronted by this problem, do not always realize the gravity of their efforts to escape from their desperate predicament. They cannot see farther than the immediate threat of disgrace. Doctor Hudson advised that when a medical man is approached on this matter by people half-insane with worry, instead of treating them with cold anger, it would be to his credit if he viewed the circumstances in a spirit of sympathetic understanding, and tried to suggest some ethical procedure which would not only safeguard the life of an unborn child but shield the mother from a ruinous collapse of personality. This is, I think, an interesting side-light on the man’s nobility; and on his courage also, for this is a ticklish subject. (R.M.)
I couldn’t help grinning, though I suppose I should have been indignant. She was as transparent as glass, with no more realization of her unpleasant implications than a six-year-old.
“No,” I reiterated, firmly. “Sometimes these cases are very sad, indeed; but there’s nothing we can do about them.”
“It’s too bad,” sighed Dorothy. “I read a story once about the older sister of Jairus’ daughter; you know, the little girl that Jesus raised from the dead?”
I remembered the narrative, but said I hadn’t recalled that the child had an older sister.
“Not in the Bible, she didn’t,” agreed Dorothy, “but in this story that I read. Shall I tell you, or haven’t you time?”
“Tell me, if it isn’t too long.”
“Well, after Jesus had brought back the little girl to life,
“You said you wanted to see some of my drawings,” explained Dorothy, laying a portfolio before me.
“But I didn’t mean to cause you a special trip,” I protested.
She drew out a marine sketch and held it up. I had seen wetter water in pictures, but it was obvious that the girl was a keen observer and had talent. The shadows of the ropes and spars rippled in rhythm with the choppy swells of the breeze-swept harbor. It wasn’t a great picture, but it held out great promise.
“Did you draw that?” I inquired. She nodded. “Didn’t copy it?” I asked. “Sketched it from life?”
“Yes, Doctor. Is it any good?”
“Good? Of course it’s good!”
♦
Well, we had to let James Wickes go from the hospital to a mortuary, as I had ruefully anticipated; though, had he lived, I suspect that his survival would have been of small satisfaction to himself and his family. The next few days were so heavily weighted with serious duties that I had but little time to think about the Wickes family. On the next Sunday afternoon at five, when I was about through with the day’s work, I found Dorothy waiting for me, just outside my office door. I invited her to come in. She sat down on the edge of her chair and tugged nervously at her gloves.
“It’s about one of my girl friends in the store,” she began, without preamble. “I’m so dreadfully sorry for her. She is almost crazy with worry. I want to ask your advice.”
“Is this what I’m afraid it is?” I asked.
Dorothy nodded, and flushed a little. “But she’s a very nice girl, just the same,” she declared loyally.
“Not you, by any chance,” I suggested, looking her squarely in the eyes. But the eyes did not flinch. She shook her head. “That’s good,” I said. “I believe you. Well, go on. Tell me anything you want me to know; though I hope you’re not going to ask me to think of a quick way out of this for your friend, because I am quite definitely not in that line of business.”
“N-no, I wasn’t going to ask that, exactly,” said Dorothy reluctantly, “though of course it would be just awfully sweet of you.” *
Among Doctor Hudson’s papers I found the notes of an address he had delivered before the State Medical Association on March 9, 1914, the subject of which may have been inspired by this conversation. In his address. Doctor Hudson states it is his belief that many young persons, confronted by this problem, do not always realize the gravity of their efforts to escape from their desperate predicament. They cannot see farther than the immediate threat of disgrace. Doctor Hudson advised that when a medical man is approached on this matter by people half-insane with worry, instead of treating them with cold anger, it would be to his credit if he viewed the circumstances in a spirit of sympathetic understanding, and tried to suggest some ethical procedure which would not only safeguard the life of an unborn child but shield the mother from a ruinous collapse of personality. This is, I think, an interesting side-light on the man’s nobility; and on his courage also, for this is a ticklish subject. (R.M.)
I couldn’t help grinning, though I suppose I should have been indignant. She was as transparent as glass, with no more realization of her unpleasant implications than a six-year-old.
“No,” I reiterated, firmly. “Sometimes these cases are very sad, indeed; but there’s nothing we can do about them.”
“It’s too bad,” sighed Dorothy. “I read a story once about the older sister of Jairus’ daughter; you know, the little girl that Jesus raised from the dead?”
I remembered the narrative, but said I hadn’t recalled that the child had an older sister.
“Not in the Bible, she didn’t,” agreed Dorothy, “but in this story that I read. Shall I tell you, or haven’t you time?”
“Tell me, if it isn’t too long.”
“Well, after Jesus had brought back the little girl to life,
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