out
to Lee, Massachusetts, to live on a farm, until she should become
stronger. When I grew stronger, I left San Francisco with my faithful
attendant, Mary. I did not let them know that I was in New York, and had
taken possession of this fine house, which I own. Suddenly I fell ill
again. I intended to wait until I grew stronger to hunt her up, and see
how I should like her before making overtures of friendship to her. I
should not like to make a will and leave all to these people whom I do
not know. There are hundreds of homes for old and aged women that need
the money more."

"Still, a will should always be made," said the doctor, earnestly. "I
will send for some one at once, if you will entertain the idea of
attending to it."

"No!" she replied, firmly. "If anything happens to me, I will let them
take their chances. Don't say anything more about it, doctor; my mind is
fully made up."

He dared not argue with a woman who was so near her end as he believed
her to be.

This case proved to be one of the greatest achievements of his life.
From the very Valley of the Shadow of Death he drew back the struggling,
fluttering spirit of the helpless lady. And when the first gray streaks
of dawn flushed the eastern sky, the doctor drew a great sigh of relief.

"Thank God, she will live!" he said.

When the sun rose later the danger was past--the battle of life had been
won, and death vanquished.

Although Doctor Gardiner was very weary after his night's vigil, still
he left the house with a happy heart beating in his bosom.

He scarcely felt the fatigue of his arduous labors as he stepped into
his carriage again. His heart gave a strange throb as he ordered the
driver to go to the tenement house, the home of the old basket-maker and
his beautiful daughter.

How strange it was that the very thought of this fair girl seemed to
give his tired brain rest for a moment!

He soon found himself at the street and number he wanted.

"Does Mr. Moore, the basket-maker, live here?" he asked, pausing for a
moment to inquire of a woman who sat on the doorstep with a little child
in her arms.

"Yes," she answered, in a surly voice; "and more's the pity for the rest
of us tenants, for he is a regular fiend incarnate, sir, and has a fit
of the delirium tremens as regularly as the month comes round. He's got
'em now. A fine dance he leads that poor daughter of his. Any other girl
would get out and leave him. Are you the doctor Mis