resentment shot for an instant into his bewildered
brain. Then it was gone, and in a flash it came upon him that she was
but uttering his own philosophy of life, showing him life's cheapness,
life's littleness, the absurdity of being distressed by looking upon
the light as it flickered out. And she was doing it, not as a
philosopher, but with the beautiful unconcern of a child.

Suddenly, as if impelled by an emotion in direct contradiction to her
apparent lack of sympathy, she reached out a hand and placed it on
Kent's forehead. It was another shock. It was not a professional touch,
but a soft, cool little pressure that sent a comforting thrill through
him. The hand was there for only a moment, and she withdrew it to
entwine the slim fingers with those of the others in her lap.

"You have no fever," she said. "What makes you think you are dying?"

Kent explained what was happening inside him. He was completely shunted
off his original track of thought and anticipation. He had expected to
ask for at least a mutual introduction when his visitor came into his
room, and had anticipated taking upon himself the position of a polite
inquisitor. In spite of O'Connor, he had not thought she would be quite
so pretty. He had not believed her eyes would be so beautiful, or their
lashes so long, or the touch of her hand so pleasantly unnerving. And
now, in place of asking for her name and the reason for her visit, he
became an irrational idiot, explaining to her certain matters of
physiology that had to do with aortas and aneurismal sacs. He had
finished before the absurdity of the situation dawned upon him, and
with absurdity came the humor of it. Even dying, Kent could not fail to
see the funny side of a thing It struck him as suddenly as had the
girl's beauty and her bewildering and unaffected ingenuousness.

Looking at him, that same glow of mysterious questioning in her eyes,
the girl found him suddenly laughing straight into her face.

"This is funny. It's very funny, Miss--Miss--"

"Marette," she supplied, answering his hesitation.

"It's funny, Miss Marette."

"Not Miss Marette. Just Marette," she corrected.

"I say, it's funny," he tried again. "You see, it's not so terribly
pleasant as you might think to--er--be here, where I am, dying. And
last night I thought about the finest thing in the world would be to
have a woman beside me, a woman who'd be sort of sympathetic, you know,
ease the thing off a little, mayb