ing negative she would try
to smile bravely and hide her disappointment.

On one of the last days of this period--it was the Sunday before
election--Doctor West had said that either the end or a turn for the
better must be close at hand. Katherine had been sitting long watching
Elsie's pale face and faintly rising bosom, when Elsie slowly opened
her eyes. Elsie pressed her friend's hand with a barely perceptible
pressure and smiled with the faintest shadow of a smile.

"You here again, Katherine?" she breathed.

"Yes, dear."

"Just the same dear Katherine!"

"Don't speak, Elsie."

She was silent a space. Then the wistful look Katherine had seen so
often came into the patient's soft gray eyes, and she knew what
Elsie's words were going to be before they passed her lips.

"Have you heard anything--from him?"

Katherine slowly shook her head.

Elsie turned her face away for a moment. A sigh fluttered out. Then
she looked back.

"But you are still trying to find him?"

"We have done, and are doing, everything, dear."

"I'm sure," sighed Elsie, "that he would come if he only knew."

"Yes--if he only knew."

"And you will keep on--trying--to get him word?"

"Yes, dear."

"Then perhaps--he may come yet."

"Perhaps," said Katherine, with hopeful lips. But in her heart there
was no hope.

Elsie closed her eyes, and did not speak again. Presently Katherine
went out into the level, red-gold sunlight of the waning November
afternoon. The church bells, resting between their morning duty and
that of the night, all were silent; over the city there lay a hush--it
was as if the town were gathering strength for its final spasm of
campaign activity on the morrow. There was nothing in that Sabbath
calm to disturb the emotion of Elsie's bedside, and Katherine walked
slowly homeward beneath the barren maples, in that fearful, tremulous,
yearning mood in which she had left the bedside of her friend.

In this same mood she reached home and entered the empty sitting-room.
She was slowly drawing off her gloves when she perceived, upon the
centre-table, a special delivery letter addressed to herself. She
picked it up in moderate curiosity. The envelope was plain, the
address was typewritten, there was nothing to suggest the identity of
the sender. In the same moderate curiosity she unfolded the inclosure.
Then her curiosity became excitement, for the letter bore the
signature of Mr. Seymour.

"I have to-day received a