To Doctor Hapgood she was a machine merely; an easy-running one, a
dependable one, but none the less a machine. To Huntter, shut away from
society, gregarious, friendly, and kindly, she had meant much more. Her
recent experience abroad, with all the exquisite touches of human
interest and uplift, had left her peculiarly sensitive to her present
environment.

She liked the man in the room next her. There was much that was noble and
fine about him, but he was a type that had never entered her life before,
and often, by his kindliest word and gesture, drew her attention to a
yawning space between them. She was at her ease, perfectly so, when near
him, but she knew it was because of the distance that separated them.
Still, she was confronted by a certain grim fact, and that ugly knowledge
held him and her together. By some strange process of reason she wanted
him to live up to the best in him. There were two markedly different
sides of his nature; she trembled before one; before the other she gave
homage as she did to Travers, to John Boswell, and Master Farwell.

The day before, Huntter had had a long talk with Doctor Hapgood while she
was off duty. That conversation had doubtlessly caused the bad night; she
wondered about it now. It had evidently upset Huntter a good deal.

Then Priscilla, losing consciousness gradually, thought of Travers, of
Margaret Moffatt, who believed her to be out of the city. She smiled
happily as she relived her blessed memories of good men and women. They
justified and sanctified life, love, and happiness, and they made it
possible for her, poor, struggling, little white nurse as she was, with
all her professional knowledge, to trust and sympathize, and faithfully
serve.