his blocks and listened to fairy-tales. Outside, a bitter
cold wind swept the empty streets. Her husband ill, perhaps dying,
Margar gone; it was all unreal and unconvincing.

At four o'clock the doctor came back, and at five the nurse pleasantly
took possession of the sick room. She was a sensible New England woman,
who cooked potatoes in an amazing way for Teddy's supper, and taught
Martie a new solitaire in the still watches of the night. Martie was
anxious to make her comfortable; she must lie down; and she must be
sure to get out into the fresh air to-morrow afternoon.

But Miss Swann did not leave her case the next day, a Sunday, and
Martie, awed and silent, spent the day beside the bed. Wallace died at
five o'clock.

He wandered in a light fever that morning, and at two o'clock fell into
the stupor that was not to end in this world. But Martie had, to
treasure, the memory of the early morning when she slipped quietly into
the room that was orderly, dimly lighted, and odorous of drugs now. He
was awake then, his eyes found her, and he smiled as she knelt beside
him.

"Better?" she said softly.

The big head nodded almost imperceptibly. He moistened his lips.

"I'm all right," he said voicelessly. "Bad--bad cold!"

He shut his eyes, and with them shut, added in a whisper: "Sweet, sweet
woman, Martie! Remember that day--in Pittsville--when you had on--your
brother's--coat? Mabel--and old Jesse--!"

Heavenly tears rushed to her eyes; she felt the yielding of her frozen
heart. She caught his hand to her lips, bowing her face over it.

"Ah, Wallace dear! We were happy then! We'll go back--back to that
time--and we'll start fresh!"

A long silence. Then he opened his eyes, found her, with a start, as if
he had not been quite sure what those opening eyes would see, and
smiled sleepily.

"I'll make it--up to you, Martie!" he said heavily She had her arms
about him as he sank into unnatural sleep. At eight, whispering in the
kitchen with John, who had come for Teddy, she said that Wallie was
better; and busy with coffee and toast for Miss Swann, she began to
plan for Costa Rica. Beaten, crushed, purified by fire, healed by
tears, she was ready for life again.

But that was not to be. Wallace was dead, and those who gathered about
Martie wondered that she wept for her husband more than for her child.

Wept for the wasted life, perhaps, and for the needless suffering and
sorrow. But even in the first hours of