The gates of life were opened.

How easy for life itself to pass away in that deep crimson tide! "This is the poetry of our profession," said the doctor, binding up the wound with all a woman's gentleness.
Poor Peggy, who could ever associate the idea of poetry with her! I could not help smiling as I looked at her sturdy arm, through whose opaque surface the blue wandering of the veins was vainly sought.
"And now," said he, after giving her a comforting draught, "she will sleep, and _you_ must sleep, madam," turning respectfully to my mother; "you have not strength enough to resist fatigue,--your daughter will have two to nurse instead of one, if you do not follow my advice." "I cannot sleep," replied my mother.
"But you can rest, madam; it is your duty.

What did I come here for, but to relieve your cares?
Go with your mother, my dear, and after a while you may come back and help me." "You are very kind, sir," she answered.

With a graceful bend of the head she passed from the room, while his eyes followed her with an expression of intense interest.
It is no wonder.

Even I, accustomed as I was to watch her every motion, was struck by the exceeding grace of her manner.