With the dawning of the morning he would know whether she would live or
die.

"Doctor," she said, looking up into his face, "do you think my illness
is fatal? Is this my last call?"

He scarcely knew how to answer her. He felt that the truth should not be
kept from her. But how was he to tell her?

"Because," she went on, before he could answer, "if it is, I had better
know it in time, in order to settle up my affairs. I--I have always
dreaded making a will; but--but there will come a time, sooner or later,
when it will be necessary for me to do so."

Again Doctor Gardiner laughed out that hearty, reassuring laugh.

"That is the natural feeling of a woman," he said. "Men never have that
feeling. With them it is but an ordinary matter, as it should be."

"Would you advise me to make a will, doctor?" and the white face was
turned wistfully to him.

"Certainly," he replied, with an attempt at light-heartedness. "It will
occupy your mind, give you something to think about, and take your
thoughts from your fancied aches and pains."

"Fancied?" replied the poor lady. "Ah, doctor, they are real enough,
although you do not seem to think so. I--I want to leave all my money to
_you_, doctor," she whispered. "You are the only person in the whole
wide world who, without an object, has been kind to me," she added, with
sudden energy. The fair, handsome face of the young doctor grew grave.

"Nay, nay," he said, gently. "While I thank you with all my heart for
the favor you would bestow on me, still I must tell you that I could not
take the money. No, no, my dear Miss Rogers; it must go to the next of
kin, if you have any."

Her face darkened as an almost forgotten memory rose up before her.

"No!" she said, sharply; "anything but that! They never cared for me!
They shall not fight over what I have when I am dead!"

"But you have relatives?" he questioned, anxiously.

"Yes," she said; "one or two distant cousins, who married and who have
families of their own. One of them wrote me often while I lived at San
Francisco; but in her letters she always wanted something, and such
hints were very distasteful to me. She said that she had named one of
her children after me, saying in the next sentence that I ought to make
the girl my heiress. I wrote to her to come on to San Francisco, when I
fell so ill, a few weeks ago. She answered me that she could not come,
that she was very sick herself, and that the doctors had ordered her