Hitherto it had been qualified by her conception of all life as a compromise, by her new effort to be unexacting of life. All RNs were familiar with blood stains. She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. “If I do,” he said. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. "I'd lay down my life for yours.
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