wing that you've done what you could toward it."

"Oh, my God, don't, Pennington!" cried out Francis, clutching Marjorie
tighter unconsciously. "It's as true as gospel. But let up now. Get
somebody. Do something, for heaven's sake! You know about medicine a
little, don't you?"

"Take her inside and put her to bed," Pennington commanded shortly.
"I'll take your motor-cycle and go for Mother O'Mara. I can get a
doctor from there by to-morrow, perhaps."

Francis gathered the limp little body up again without a word. Only he
turned at the door for a last appeal.

"Can't you tell at all what it is?"

"Fever, I think. She's caught malarial fever, perhaps. She wouldn't
have done if she'd been stronger. Take her in."

So Francis carried his wife over the threshold, into the little brown
room he had decked for her so long ago, and laid her down again. Her
head fell back on the pillow, and her hands lay as he dropped them. He
stood back and looked at her, a double terror in his heart. She would
never love him again. How could she? And she would die--surely she
would die, and he had killed her.

"I'm--going," she said very faintly, as a sleep-talker speaks. She was
not conscious of what she said, but it was the last straw for Francis.
He had not slept nor eaten lately, and he had worked double time all
day to keep his mind from the state of things, ever since he had
brought her back. So perhaps it was not altogether inexcusable that he
flung himself on the floor by the bedside and broke down.

He was aroused after awhile by the touch of Marjorie's hand. He lifted
his head, thinking she had come to and touched him knowingly. But he
saw that it was only that she was tossing a little, with the
restlessness of the fever, and his heart went down again.

He pulled himself up from the bedside, and went doggedly at his work of
undressing her and putting her to bed.

She was as easy to handle as a child; and once or twice, when he had to
lift or turn her in the process of undressing, he could feel how light
she was, and that she was thinner. She had always been a little thing,
but the long weeks of work had made her almost too thin--not too thin
for her own tastes, because, like all the rest of the women of the
present, she liked it; but thin enough to give Francis a fresh pang of
remorse. He felt like a slave-driver.

When he had finished his task, he stood back, and wondered if there was
anything else he