"Camilla Maurice, is she hurt?" he asked. The little agent busied himself making a fire. "She's dead," he answered slowly. "Dead, you say?" "Yes, dead,"--very quietly. The fire blazed up and lit the room, shining unpityingly upon the face of the man on the floor. Evans noticed, and drawing off his own coat spread it over the face and hands, covering them from sight; then, uncertain, he returned and sat down, mechanically holding his palms to the blaze. A moment later Dr. Curtis appeared at the tiny bedroom entrance; and, emerging as the little man had done before him, he closed the door softly behind. In his arms he carried a blanket, carefully rolled. From the depths of its folds, as he slowly crossed the room toward the stove, there escaped a sudden cry, muffled, unmistakable. The doctor sank down wearily in a chair. Ole, the boy-faced, without a question brought in fresh wood, laying it down on the floor very, very softly. "Will he--live?" asked Bud Evans, suddenly, with an uncertain glance at the obscuring blanket; and hearing the query, the Swede paused in his work to listen. The big doctor hesitated, and cleared his throat. "I think so; though--God forgive me--I hope not." And he cleared his throat again. JOURNEY'S END I "Steve!" It was the girl who spoke, but the man did not seem to hear. He was staring through the window, unseeingly, into the heart of his bitter foe, Winter. He sat silent, helpless. "Steve!" At last he awoke. "Mollie!--girlie!" An hour had passed since he left the doctor's office to reel and stagger drunkenly through the slush and the sleet, and the icy blasts, which bit cruelly into his very vitals. Now he and Mollie were alone in the tiny library. Babcock had been warmed, washed, fed. Seemingly without volition on his part, he was before the hard-coal blaze, his feet on the fender, the light carefully shaded from his eyes. Once upon a time-- But Steve Babcock, master mechanic, had not lost his nerve--once upon a time. "Steve"--the voice was as soft as the wide brown eyes, as the dainty oval chin--"Steve, tell me what it is." The man's hand, palm outward, dropped wearily, eloquently. That was all. "But tell me," the girl's chair came closer, so that she might have touched him, "you went to see the doctor?" "Yes." "And he--?" Again the silent, hopeless gesture, more fear-inspiring than words. "Don't keep me in suspense, please." A small hand was on the man's knee, now, frankly unashamed. "Tell me what he said." For an instant there was silence, then Babcock shrugged awkwardly, in an effort at nonchalance. "He said I was--was--" in spite of himself, the speaker paused to moisten his lips--"a dead man." "Steve!" Not a word this time; not even a shrug. "Steve, you--you're not--not joking with me?" Lower and lower, still in silence, dropped the man's chin. "Steve," in a steadier voice, "please answer me. You're not joking?"