oking at Justine: "You have helped to nurse me, have you not?" His
wasted fingers moved over the counterpane towards her.

"I could do so little," she murmured.

"You have more than paid your debt to me," he gently replied. "For I
live, you see, and poor Hector died."

She shook her head gravely, and rejoined: "Ah no, I can never pay the
debt I owe to you and to God--now." He did not understand this, I know.
But I did. "You must not talk any more," I said to him.

But Justine interposed. "He must be told that the nurse who has done
most for him is Mrs. Falchion." His brows contracted as if he were
trying to remember something. He moved his head wearily.

"Yes, I think I remember," he said, "about her being with me, but
nothing clearly--nothing clearly. She is very kind."

Justine here murmured: "Shall I tell her?"

I was about to say no; but Roscoe nodded, and said quietly, "Yes, yes."

Then I made no objection, but urged that the meeting should only be for
a moment. I determined not to leave them alone even for that moment.
I did not know what things connected with their past--whatever it
was--might be brought up, and I knew that entire freedom from excitement
was necessary. I might have spared myself any anxiety on the point. When
she came she was perfectly self-composed, and more as she seemed when
I first knew her, though I will admit that I thought her face more
possible to emotion than in the past.

It seems strange to write of a few weeks before as the past; but so much
had occurred that the days might easily have been months and the weeks
years.

She sat down beside him and held out her hand. And as she did so, I
thought of Boyd Madras and of that long last night of his life, and of
her refusal to say to him one comforting word, or to touch his hand in
forgiveness and friendship. And was this man so much better than Boyd
Madras? His wild words in delirium might mean nothing, but if they meant
anything, and she knew of that anything, she was still a heartless,
unnatural woman, as I had once called her.

Roscoe took her hand and held it briefly. "Dr. Marmion says that you
have helped to nurse me through my illness," he whispered. "I am most
grateful."

I thought she replied with the slightest constraint in her voice. "One
could not let an old acquaintance die without making an effort to save
him."

At that instant I grew scornful, and longed to tell him of her husband.
But then a husband was not an