s too late now, and in two of three years much may happen.
One word more, and I have done. I have no sort of claim on
your kindness, Monsieur, but you have proved yourself a
friend, and as such I would ask you not to lose sight of
Madelon entirely. She will be but a friendless little one when
I am gone, and I have not much confidence in her aunt's tender
mercies."

"You may depend upon it that I will not," said Graham
earnestly, and hardly thinking of the sort of responsibility
he was accepting.

"Thank you; then that is all. And now, Monsieur le Docteur,
how long do you give me?"

"How long?" said Graham.

"Ah! how long to live?--to-day, to-night, to-morrow? How long,
in short?"

Then Graham spoke plainly at last, without further reticence
or concealment, so useless in the face of this indifference
and levity, real or affected.

"M. Linders," he said, "the chance on which your recovery
hangs is so slight, that I do not think it probable, hardly
possible, that you can live over to-morrow. Will you not try
to understand this?"

There was something so wistful and kind and honest in Graham's
expression as he stood there, looking down on his patient,
that M. Linders was touched, perhaps, for he held out his hand
with a little friendly gesture; but even then he could not, or
would not abandon his latest pose of dying _en philosophe_.

"I understand well enough," he answered; "a man does not
arrive at my age, _mon ami_, without having faced death more
than once. You think, perhaps, it has terrors for me?--not at
all; to speak frankly, pain has, but I do not suffer so much
now. That is a bad sign, perhaps. Well, never mind, you have
done your best for me, I know, and I thank you. Except for
that little regret that you know of as regards Legros and--and
Madelon, I am content that life should come to an end--it is
not too delightful in any case, and those that I cared for
most did their best to spoil mine for me. For people who
believe in a hereafter, and choose to contemplate a doubtful
future, adorned with flames and largely peopled with devils, I
can imagine death to have its unpleasant side; but I look upon
all such notions as unphilosophical in the extreme. And now,
Monsieur, I think I could sleep a little. By-and-by, when
Madelon awakes, I should like to see her."

He turned his head away, and presently fell into a light dose.
Did he mean, or did he persuade himself that he meant half of
what he said? Grah