Then, in a moment, as it seemed, out into the wind and
snow again, the great figure of the doctor almost filling
the seat of the cutter, the two of us crushed in beside
him, with responsibility, the unbearable burden, gone
from us, and renewed comfort in our hearts.
Little is said on the way: our heads are bent against
the storm: the long stride of the doctor's mare eats up
the flying road.
Then as we near the farm house and see the light in the
sick-room window, fear clutches our hearts again.
"You boys unhitch," says the doctor. "I'll go right in."
Presently, when we enter the house, we find that he is
in the sick-room--the door closed. No word of comfort
has come forth. He has sent out for hot blankets. The
stoves are to be kept burning. We must sit up. We may be
needed. That is all.
And there in that still room through the long night, he
fights single-handed against Death. Behind him is no
human help, no consultation, no wisdom of the colleges
to call in; only his own unaided strength, and his own
firm purpose and that strange instinct in the fight for
a flickering life, that some higher power than that of
colleges has planted deep within his soul.
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