The memory of that old woman haunted Warner. He argued continuously with
himself. Yes, he had certainly killed her. There was no doubt about it.
On the other hand, she would have died in any case. If he had not come
upon the scene, she might have lingered on for a few more weary weeks,
never free from pain. Still, if he had overdosed her intentionally to
end her pain, it would surely have been murder. At best it was a
criminal blunder. But then he meant well. So, too, do other fools.
Common sense told him he had no cause to worry, nothing to regret, it
was merely a fortunate accident. Conscience viewed the matter seriously
and with harshness.
Warner was still engaged in this mental struggle when a stranger, a
white man, walked briskly up to his tent.
"Is anyone at home?"
"Yes, come in."
"Have you any nitrate of potash, doctor?"
Warner had become so used to the term "doctor" that he did not at once
notice the significance of the word when spoken by a white man. So he
merely answered: "Yes, I think so. What do you want it for?"
"I, too, am a doctor."
"A doctor?"
"Yes, a medical missionary, your new neighbour on the other side of the
hill."
"Sit down a minute, I'll get the stuff."
Warner went to his box and, opening it, surveyed his wretched stock of
stale drugs. So here was a real doctor! Thank Providence for that! He
passed in review his many cases, only a few of which are set down here.
He knew he had done his best, but he blamed himself for ever having aped
the doctor.
"Is there anything you want besides nitrate of potash?"
"No, thanks. I've got everything else I'm likely to require."