He was white as
death save for the red spots that marked his fever. She took off her
coat and snow-cap hurriedly.

"Lawrence," she said softly, going toward him.

He lifted his head slightly.

"What is it, Claire?"

"I want to do something for you. You're ill."

His face clouded. "No, thanks," he said. "You've done too much for me
already."

"Won't you do anything for yourself?" she begged.

"I'll be all right. It's just a cold, I guess."

Philip came and stood looking down at Lawrence scrutinizingly, while
Claire went to the fire and heated water.

"I am going to fill you up with quinin," he announced. "It is never
missing from my medicine-chest."

"All right," Lawrence laughed. "It isn't bitter compared to what I'm
filling myself with."

"Are you not making a fool of yourself?" Philip asked plainly.

"Yes. I know it. That doesn't keep me from doing it, though."

Claire turned and looked at them, her eyes sternly reproachful toward
Philip.

"One can't help thinking," she said. "I can't."

"I shouldn't want you to," Lawrence returned. "Indeed, I'm grateful to
you for making me think, too."

"She started you off, did she?" Philip smiled.

Lawrence did not answer, and Philip sat down by the fire where he could
watch Claire as she worked.

After a time Lawrence said thoughtfully: "If one could establish some
sort of a relation between himself and the ultimate first cause of all
this blind snowstorm we call life, things might get shaped with some
measure for perspectives."

"Yes," Philip assented. "I manage to establish one, though I confess it
isn't clearly logical."

"What is it?" Lawrence asked.

"Simply having faith; hope, if you prefer it."

"But faith in what, and what do you base it on?"

"Oh, on my experience."

"I wonder if we really matter at all to the rest of the scheme," Claire
voiced.

"I am inclined to think not," replied Lawrence. "We matter only to
ourselves, and what we can do with the universe around us."

"We matter to God, I think," said Philip. "I don't mean in the old
accepted sense; but we must matter to Him in some way, perhaps as your
statue here matters to you."

Lawrence chuckled weakly. "It mattered tremendously when I was doing
it. Now it doesn't in the least matter. I shouldn't care if you burned
it as firewood."

"But you must care," Claire protested, feeling that he was losing
interest in his work because of her.

"I don't see why. I haven't any real