One day when Mr. Salmon, in his smoking jacket, weak and pale, sat thinking, Marie, cuddled up to him, and stroking his hair. He knew something was coming, for, like her dear, dead mother before her, that was the girl’s way. “Father,” she said, “you have been ill, very ill, but thank God you have been spared.” “Yes,” said he, “and through your noble devotion.” “We did the best we could,” she said, slyly. “We,” he said, “what we? Did you have help?” “Yes, in your fever, you did not know, but it was Milton who braved all danger, and with me, sat up night after night, watching your slightest movement.” “And I hated him so,” said Salmon. “He has heaped coals of fire upon my head, and has nobly shamed me.” “Father, believe me, the eye of love cannot be deceived,” appealed the girl. “You have misjudged Milton.” “Perhaps,” said he, “my darling, I have. I surrender!” In a moment, for joy, she was sobbing on her father’s breast, and he, too, could not restrain a silent tear. “Bring Milton to me,” said Salmon, “he shall not outdo me in generosity; if he will but love and cherish you as I have done, I’ll ask no more.” But a brief period elapsed and a happy trio were in conclave at the lawyer’s residence. CHAPTER XXIX. PAUL FOLLOWS CHRIST.--THE END. Paul Strogoff had developed a peculiar philosophy since Ouida had sent him into grief. Though singularly fortunate as far as this world goes, though young, though of lusty strength, though possessing the ability to gratify every desire, he loved not life, but death. He had come to the conclusion that what a man gets in life is not by any means sufficient compensation for the struggle through which he goes. If he could have folded his arms quietly and passed out of human existence, he would not have murmured, but with perfect resignation accepted his fate. He was neither a physical nor a moral coward. His whole life had been marked by bravery, therefore he could not commit suicide. His fortune was being expended in private charities, and many boys, struggling up from the gutter, wondered at his generosity. They would not have done so, if they had seen Paul’s early battle with the dog. When the scourge visited the city, Paul remained, not so much for the reason that he might reach death as that he saw opportunities for good, useful, and above all, absorbing work. Like many others he for a time labored assiduously, and was spared, but at length his turn came, and he, who had worked with such devotion for others, lay sick and dying, almost bereft of attention and care. At length, his servant, an old Russian retainer of the family, managed to procure the attendance of Dr. Simpson. As soon as he saw Paul, the doctor shook his head ominously. “How is my master?” said the Russian. “In the very extremity of the fever, sir.” “Is there no hope?” asked the servant. “None,” said the doctor, unhesitatingly, “he will be dead within the hour.”