The long day wore slowly into night. The doctor had returned very shortly with a man, whether physician or nurse she did not know, whom he left with Mr. Leroy. The little maid, who had been dozing in the upper hall, received some orders concerning the preparation of food which she proceeded to execute. The convalescent child rested well. The sick woman passed from the first to the second stage of the disease and was more quiet. The doctor came again after nightfall. He looked at her charges wearily, and told Mildred that the master of the house would not rally. “He is my friend, and I can do no more for him,” he said, almost with apathy. The night passed as even nights in sick-rooms will, and at last it began to grow toward day. The nurse became suddenly conscious of deadly weariness and need of rest. She called the servant and left her in charge, with a few directions and the injunction to call her at need, and then stole down the stairs to snatch, before she rested, the breath of morning air she craved. As she stood at the veranda’s edge in the twilight coolness and twilight hush watching the whitening sky, there came steps behind her, and turning, she came face to face with Neil Hardesty. She stared at him with unbelieving eyes. “Yes, it is I,” he said. “You were with Mr. Leroy?” she asked. “Are you going?” “My work is over here,” he answered, quietly. “I am going to send--some one else.” She bent her head a second’s space with the swift passing courtesy paid death by those to whom it has become a more familiar friend than life itself, then lifted it, and for a minute they surveyed each other gravely. “This is like meeting you on the other side of the grave,” she said. “How came you here? I thought you were in California.” “I thought you were in Europe.” “I was for awhile, but there was nothing there I wanted. Then I came back and entered the training school. After this is over I have arranged to join the sisterhood of St. Margaret. I think I can do better work so.” “Let me advise you not to mistake your destiny. You were surely meant for the life of home and society, and can do a thousand-fold more good that way.” “You do not know,” she answered, simply. “I am very happy in my life. It suits me utterly. I have never been so perfectly at peace.” “But it will wear you out,” he murmured. She looked at him out of her great eyes, surprisedly. It was a look he knew of old. “Why, I expect it to,” she answered. There was a little silence before she went on, apparently without effort: