few minutes," the nurse hinted.

Beverley let herself be led in. The room looked strange to her. The
servants, directed by the doctor, and later by the trained nurse, had
swiftly, noiselessly made the changes before the girl came back to
herself. The curtains had been taken down, and rugs cleared away from
the parquet floor. Most of the furniture had disappeared, and on a glass
table were a number of bottles. The bed faced the door, and as Mrs.
Sands softly entered a pair of eyes looked at her. Beverley's heart
jumped as her eyes met them. She had not known how immense and dark they
were, or that they were beautiful.

The nurse drew Mrs. Sands near to the bed, and issued her orders before
the girl could open her lips.

"Neither of you must talk much," she commanded. "Mrs. Sands has come to
let you see that she exists, and you can thank her if you like, but she
mustn't stay many minutes."

"Sister Lake is right," said Beverley. "You mustn't excite yourself.
You're going to get well; and this is your home."

"I'm not excited," the girl answered, in a low, monotonous voice, hardly
above a whisper. "But I had to see you, and tell you this one thing. I
didn't want to live, because ... I was miserable, and everyone hated me;
still, it seemed awful to die. You saved me. I wish to live now, if only
to show you what gratitude can be. I expect you're awfully rich. I'm
poorer than any church mouse. It doesn't look as if I could do anything
for one like you. But who knows? There was a mouse once helped a lion.
It gnawed a hole in a net. I feel as if the time must come when I can do
as much, because I want to so dreadfully. That's all!"

IV

THE MURMUR OF THE STORM

It seemed that everything were to go wrong with Roger Sands that day. He
had felt for the last few months that a cloud had risen between him and
John Heron, whose cause he had won in California. If ever a business man
owed a debt of gratitude to the brains of another, John Heron owed such
a debt to Roger Sands, who had risked not only his reputation, but even
his life against the powerful enemies of the alleged "California Oil
Trust King." Heron had appeared fully to appreciate this; and before
Roger left for New York had been almost oppressively cordial, begging in
vain that Roger would visit him and his wife, a famous beauty with
Spanish blood in her veins. He had written once, immediately after
Sands' departure, and had telegraphed congratulations on