one to suffer. Two big tears grew in her eyes and rolled
down her cheeks. She had never loved Braden Thorpe as she loved him now.

She knew that he was moved by honest intentions. That he confidently
believed he could preserve this man's life she would not for an instant
doubt. But why had he agreed to undertake the feat that other men had
declared was useless, the work that other men had said to be absolutely
unnecessary? A faint ray of comfort rested on the possibility that these
great surgeons, appreciating, the wide-spread interest that naturally
would attend the fate of so great a man as James Marraville, were loth to
face certain failure, but even that comfort was destroyed by an
intelligence that argued for these surgeons instead of against them. They
had said that the case was hopeless. They were honest men. They had the
courage to say: "This man must die. It is God's work, not ours," and had
turned away. They were big men; they would not operate just for the sake
of operating. And when they admitted that it was useless they were
convincing the world that they were honourable men. Therefore,--she almost
ground her pretty teeth at the thought of it,--old Marraville and his
family had turned to Braden Thorpe as one without honour or conscience!

She had never been entirely free from the notion that her husband's death
was the result of premeditated action on the part of his grandson, but in
that instance there was more than professional zeal in the heart of the
surgeon: there was love and pity and gentleness in the heart of Braden
Thorpe when he obeyed the command of the dying man. If he were to come to
her now, or at any time, with the confession that he had deliberately
ended the suffering of the man he loved, she would have put her hand in
his and looked him in the eye while she spoke her words of commendation.
Templeton Thorpe had the right to appeal to him in his hour of
hopelessness, but this other man--this mighty Marraville!--what right had he
to demand the sacrifice? She had witnessed the suffering of Templeton
Thorpe, she had prayed for death to relieve him; he had called upon her to
be merciful, and she had denied him. She wondered if James Marraville had
turned to those nearest and dearest to him with the cry for mercy. She
wondered if the little pellets had been left at his bedside. She knew the
extent of his agony, and yet she had no pity for him. He was not asking
for mercy at the hands of a man who