The fever is pretty well gone, but so is the patient. The crisis left
him drained. You see he has lived this American business man's life--no
exercise, no vacations, no change. The worst of it is that he seems to
have given up the fight. You know we doctors can only stand guard
outside. The patient has to fight it out inside himself. It's a very
serious sign when the sick man loses interest in the battle. Mr. Grout
does not rally. His powerful mind has given up."

In spite of themselves there was a general lifting of the brows of
surprise at the allusion to Pop's poor little footling brain as a
powerful mind. Perhaps the doctor saw it. He said:

"For it was a powerful mind! Mr. Grout has carried that store of his
from a little shop to a big institution; he has kept it afloat in a dull
town through hard times. He has kept his credit good and he has given
his family wonderful advantages. Look where he has placed you all! He
was a great man."

When the doctor had gone they began to understand that the town had
looked upon Pop as a giant of industry, a prodigal of vicarious
extravagance. They began to feel more keenly still how good a man he
was. While they were flourishing like orchids in the sun and air, he had
grubbed in the earth, sinking roots everywhere in search of moisture and
of sustenance. Through him, things that were lowly and ugly and cheap
were gathered and transformed and sent aloft as sap to make flowers of
and color them and give them velvet petals and exquisite perfume.

They gathered silently in his room to watch him. He was white and still,
hardly breathing, already the overdue chattel of the grave.

They talked of him in whispers, for he did not answer when they praised
him. He did not move when they caressed him. He was very far away and
drifting farther.

They spoke of how much they missed him, of how perfect a father he had
been, competing with one another in regrets and in praise. Back of all
this belated tribute there was a silent dismay they did not give voice
to--the keen, immediately personal reasons for regret.

"What will become of us?" they were thinking, each in his or her own
terrified soul.

"I can't go back to school!"

"This means no college for me!"

"I'll have to stay in this awful town the rest of my life!"

"I can't go to San Francisco! The greatest honor of my life is taken
from me just as I grasped it."

"I had a commission to paint the portrait of an ambassador at