All the afternoon and all night long they fought it out. Sometimes when the suspense was too great I would go to the door. Nina sat with staring eyes at the head of the bed. Ann and the doctor were busy with ice-presses. At night-fall I gave Marie her supper and put her to bed in my room. She had become suddenly frightened and I sat beside her a long time, comforting her with stories of the Round Table, until at last she fell asleep. Norman slept a little, but most of the time, tossed about deliriously—calling out to someone who was not there. "Oh Louise!" he would moan, "How can you believe that about me? I’m not spotless—but that isn’t true. Don’t think that of me. It’s too cruel." But he got no comfort. The woman of his delirium was obdurate. The dawn was just breaking when Ann came and told me he was conscious. It was the end. Nina was kneeling beside him weeping silently. He smiled at me and tried to hold out his hand, but he was too weak. "It’s as though they had let me come back to say ’goodbye,’" he whispered. "Be good to them, Arnold—to Nina and Marie and the one that’s coming. She’s a good girl...." A look of wonder came into his eyes, with his last strength he stroked her hair. "It’s funny. I thought she was—just a toy—but she’s got a soul, Arnold. Don’t forget that, old man. Promise me"—I gripped his hand—"Oh yes. I know you’ll be good to her. I know—that’s all right. Poor little girl. I wish she wouldn’t cry so.—I’d like to kiss her once more"—Ann lifted her up so that he might kiss her. "There! There! Little one. You mustn’t cry. It’s not so bad as all that. Arnold’ll take care of you. Good luck—all of you. Don’t be afraid.... I’m...." It was a queer funeral. Some of his relatives, who had cut him since his marriage, came. It was on a Sunday so the Studenten Verein could turn out. Mrs. O’Hara, whose coal he had bought for seven years, came with her eight children. So did our washerwoman, Frau Zimmer, with her epileptic son. Guiseppe rode in the front carriage with Nina, Marie and I, and cried more than any of us. The Studenten Männer Chor sang a dirge. In the motley crowd I saw a man in the costume of an Episcopalian clergyman. As they were dispersing, he came up to me. "I am unknown to you, sir," he said, "I want to tell you that I believe in immortality—and that I am sure your friend is sitting on the right-hand of our Heavenly Father. I hope to be worthy to meet him again. He was so good that I am surprised that he escaped crucifixion. I am only one of many whom he pulled out of hell. I can not...." He burst into tears and disappeared into the crowd. Somehow, out of all the tributes to Norman which poured in on me in those days, the incoherent words of this unknown clergyman touched me most. What his story was, how Norman had helped him, I have no idea.