there? Could he catch
the breathing as distinctly now? Was the sleep heavier? Ought he to call
the family? Oh, compassionate Savior! must they give him up? Had not his
been the prayer of faith? And yet the breathing was certainly distinct,
the pulse was steady--a half hour more, one or two little sighs had
escaped the sleeper; other than that death-like stillness reigned. _Was_
he better or worse? Oh for the doctor's coming! Suddenly Pliny gave a
quick restless movement, then lay quiet; and then for the first time in
long, long days, spoke in natural yet astonished tones:

"Theodore!" Then with a sudden nervous tremor and a startled tone: "What
is it? What is it?"

Theodore knew that great beads of perspiration stood on his forehead,
but his voice sounded natural and controlled as he stood with cup and
spoon beside the bed.

"Hush, Pliny, you have had the headache, it is night. Swallow that and
go to sleep."

Like a weary, submissive child Pliny obeyed; and Theodore, trembling in
every limb so that he dropped rather than sat down in his chair, again
watched and waited. A shadow fell between him and the light and his
raised eyes met the doctor's. He had come in through the room where Jim
was waiting. He came with noiseless tread to the bedside, and the
instant his practiced eyes fell on the sleeping face they lighted up
with a quick, glad look. Moving silently back to the door again he
signaled Theodore to come to him, while as silently Jim slipped by and
took his place. Rapidly the story of the night was rehearsed.

"Well," said the doctor, with smiling eyes, "I believe we have now to
'thank God and take courage.' Can you follow the rest of my instructions
as implicitly as you have these? I would remove this strain on your
nerves if I dared, but it is a fearfully important night, and you see I
can trust you."

"I can do it," said Theodore, with a curious ring of joy in his softly
voice. "I can do _anything now_."

And the rest of that night was given not only to faithful watching and
nursing, but to thankful prayer, and to solemn promises that his spared
life should be more than ever his special charge, his constant care,
until one of those "many mansions" should be set apart as his.

It was four weeks after this eventful night. Pliny was bolstered back
among the pillows in the rocking-chair, resting after a walk half way
across his room. It was a clear, sharp winter morning, but there was
freshness and sunshi