She had stood patient and impassive till I spoke, then the colour rushed into her face and the tears into her eyes. She left the room immediately. But, as I went, she was lying in wait for me at the door. “Thank you--thank you so much! But do you really think I shall make a good careful nurse for dear papa?” I told her “Certainly--better than any one else here--better indeed than anyone I knew.” It was good to see her look of happy surprise. “Do you really think that? Nobody ever thought so well of me before. I will try--ah! won't I try, to deserve your good opinion.” Ignorant, simple heart. Most people have some other person, real or imaginary, who is more “comfortable” to them than anyone else--to whom in trouble the thoughts always first fly, who in sickness would be chosen to smooth the weary pillow, and holding whose hand they would like to die. Now, it would be quite easy, quite happy to die in a certain chamber I know, shadowy and still, with a carpet of a green leafy pattern, and bunches of fuchsias papering the walls. And about the room, a little figure moving; slender, noiseless, busy and sweet--in a brown dress, soft to touch, and making no sound, with a white collar fastened by a little coloured bow above it; the delicate throat and small head like a deer's; and the eyes something like a deer's eyes also, which turn round large and quiet, to look you right in the face--as they did then. I wonder if any accident or illness were to happen to me here, while staying in the camp--something that would make it certain I had only a few days, or hours, to live, and I happened to have sufficient consciousness and will to say what I wished done, whom I desired to see, in those few last hours, when the longing of a dying man could injure nobody,--Enough--this is the merest folly. To live, not to die, is likely to be my portion I accept it--blame me not. Day after day has gone on in the same round--my ride to Rockmount after dusk, tea there, and my evening sleep in “the Doctor's room.” There, at midnight, Treherne wakes me--I dress and return to that quiet chamber where the little figure rises from beside the bed with a smile and a whisper--“Not at all tired, thank you.” A few words more, and I give it my candle, bid it good night, and take its place, sitting down in the same armchair, and leaning my head back against the same cushion, which still keeps the indentation, soft and warm; and so I watch by the old man till morning. This is how it has regularly been. Until lately, night was the patient's most trying time. He used to lie moaning, or watching the shadows of the fire-light on the curtains. Sometimes, when I gave him food or medicine, turning upon me with a wild stare, as if he hardly knew me, or thought I was someone else. Or he would question me vaguely as to where was Dora?--and would I take care that she had a good long sleep--poor Dora!