Pat knew the hymn she was
playing:
At evening, ere the sun was set,
The sick, O Lord! around Thee lay;
Oh, with what divers ills they met,
Oh, with what joy they went away!
Once more 'tis eventide, and we,
Oppressed with various ills, draw near--
Pat was following the melody in his mind with the words that were so
often sung in the Church of the Presence of God at evening service. He
jumped down from his driver's seat and went around to the back of the
ambulance, where they were preparing to carry the patient into the
building. He was wondering what sort it was this time that he had
brought to the House of Healing. Then suddenly he saw her face and
stopped short, with a suppressed exclamation.
There, huddled on the stretcher, in her costly sporting garments, with
her long, dark lashes sweeping over her hard, little painted face, and a
pinched look of suffering about her loose-hung baby mouth, lay Gila!
He knew her at once and drew back in horror. What had he done! Brought
her here, this viper of evil that had crept into the garden of his
friends and despoiled them of their joy! Why had he not looked at her
before they started? Fool that he was! He might easily have taken her to
another hospital instead of this one. He could do so yet.
But Courtland was standing on the steps, looking down at the huddled
figure on the stretcher, with a strange expression of pity and
tenderness in his face.
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