for him. I don't think it's a _big_ thing, though he
does, and it was hard to persuade him. But to do it gives me the most
divine joy, which I can't describe. If I'd been born for that and
nothing else, it would be enough."

"How you love him!" The words broke from me.

"I do love him," she answered in a low voice, as if she spoke more to
herself than me. "Whatever may happen, I have loved him, and always will
in this world and the next."

"Aren't you frightened?" I asked.

"Frightened?" she echoed. "Oh, _no_!"

And quite a new sort of respect for her grew up within me--respect for
her physical courage. She was such a tall lily-in-silver-moonlight
creature, and so sensitive, that one could not have been disgusted with
her, as one can with some women, for cowardice; but she was brave in her
love. When she said that she was not frightened, I knew she wasn't
trying to make herself think so. She had no fear at all. She was eager
for the moment when she could make the gift.

Jim and I were allowed to be in the house when the experiment was tried,
not with the hope of seeing Murray or Rosemary afterward, but in order
to know the result without waiting.

We sat in the library, and were presently joined by Paul Jennings and
Gaby. They had grown so fond of "the hero and heroine of this romance"
(as Gaby put it) that they hadn't been able to keep away.

Jennings explained to us in detail the whole process of transfusion, and
why it was more effectual in a case like Murray's than the saline
injections given by some modern men. I felt rather faint as I listened,
seeing as if in a picture what those two devoted ones were going
through. But I knew that they were in the hands of a master, and that
the assistant and nurses he had brought would be the most efficient of
their kind.

"Would you do for me what your friend is doing for her husband?" Paul
Jennings suddenly flung the question at his wife. And she answered him,
not in words, but with a smile. I couldn't read what that smile meant,
and I wondered if he could.

Jim would not have needed to _ask_ me a thing like that!

After what seemed a long time of suspense Sir Beverley came to tell us
the news--looking like a strong-faced, middle-aged pierrot in his
surgeon's "make-up."

"All's well," he said. "They've both stood it grandly; and now they're
asleep. I thought you'd like to hear it from me, myself."

Then he looked from us to the Jenningses, whom he had never s