from the habitual gossips of the sanitarium. But Sheila held her ground
and fought for her way against their combined attacks. "Of course I know
he's dying. Don't care if the whole San faints with mortification. I'm
going to see he dies the way he wants to--keep it merry till the end."

To the Reverend Mr. Grumble, who requested--nay, demanded--admittance, she
turned a deaf ear while she held the door firmly closed behind her. "Can't
come in. Sorry, he doesn't want you. If you must say a last prayer to
comfort yourself, say it in some other room. It will do Old King Cole just
as much good and keep him much happier. Now, please go!"

So it happened that only Peter was present when the musicians arrived.
Sheila ushered them in with a flourish. "Old King Cole, your fiddlers
three. Now what shall they play?"

Lucky for the indwellers of the sanitarium that the magnate's room was in
the tower and therefore little sound escaped. It is improbable if the
final ending would ever have been known to any but those present, whose
discretion could have been relied upon, but for the fact that Miss Jacobs
stood with her ear to the keyhole for fully ten minutes. It was surprising
how quickly everybody knew about it after that. It created almost as much
scandal as Sheila's own exodus had three years before. Many had the
temerity to take the lift to the third floor and pace with attentive ears
the corridor that led to the tower. These came back to fan the flame of
shocked excitement below. The doctors and Mr. Grumble came to Miss Maxwell
to interfere and put an end to this ungodly and unprofessional humoring of
one departing soul. But the superintendent of nurses refused. She had put
the case in Sheila's hands, and she had absolute faith in her. So all that
was left to the busybodies and the scandalmongers was to hear what they
could and give free rein to their tongues.

There was, however, one mitigating fact: they could listen, and they could
talk, but they could not look beyond the closed door of the tower room.
That vivid, appalling picture was mercifully denied them. With a heaping
bowl of egg-nog beside him, and his brierwood between his lips, the coal
magnate beat time on the bedspread with a fast-failing strength, while he
grinned happily at Sheila. Beside him Peter lounged in a wheel-chair,
smoking for company, while grouped about the foot of the bed in the
attitude of a small celestial choir stood the fiddlers three.

All th