had
detected signs of over-exertion; but no, he did not appear in the least
fatigued. And yet there was no doubt that the doctor was worried about
something, for almost immediately he suggested that it was time for the
invalid to return, and helping Francis to his feet he motioned to
Philippa to give him the added support of her arm.

In vain Francis declared that the distance to the end of the corridor
had yet to be accomplished, that he was perfectly fit for it. The
older man was inexorable, and the little party retraced their steps.

"You will have your rest now, and Miss Philippa will take a walk," he
said firmly. "There is no sense in doing too much the first day. It
is always the same with convalescents, if you give them an inch they
take an ell."

After seeing Francis comfortably settled to rest he walked with
Philippa down to the library and shut the door behind him.

"What is it?" she asked quickly. "I think you are troubled about
something. Is he not so well?"

"He's all right," said the doctor abruptly. "I am not anxious about
him--now."

"Do you mean--that you think that he will live?"

She put the question breathlessly, and waited for his reply almost
afraid to draw a breath, so great was her anxiety for his verdict. It
was the question that had been ringing incessantly in her ears for days
past, for, with the gradual increase of Francis' strength, a new hope
had been born--a hope of which she hardly dared to think, and which had
yet been ever present with her.

The answer was long in coming, but at last Robert Gale spoke.

"I can see no reason now why he should not--live--why he should not
live out his life to the allotted span. He will never be robust, of
course, but he has no disease. Even the heart-weakness has responded
to treatment, or rather, I will say, to happiness, in a remarkable way."

For a moment the room and its contents danced before the girl's eyes
and a sense of the greatest gladness warmed her through and through.
All through the days that had passed since she had made the Great
Discovery, since she became aware that she loved Francis Heathcote with
every fibre of her being, there had been behind her new-found joy a
sense of dread lest the dark Angel of Death should dissipate it with
one sweep of his flaming sword. She had tried not to think of it, to
steep herself heart and soul in the one joy of loving, to surrender
herself entirely to the magic thrall of such a