The doctor's outside patients might be crying aloud for him; it was more than noontide, and he should long have been about his work; the patient in the private ward should have had Sister Marion at his side; but the pair lingered in the little red-and-white tiled ward kitchen, bathed in the warm rays of the golden afternoon sun. The dressing of the wounds was a long business, and to the ministering woman heavenly sweet. Over the cut upon his forehead the short, dark hair had to be combed. By altering the place of parting this was easily done. And Sister Marion, looking down upon him to see the effect, thrilled to find eyes, usually cold and preoccupied, fixed in a rapture of adoration upon her face. "No woman in the world has such a tender touch as you," he said. "My mother used to kiss my hurts to make them well. Will you do that too for me?" Then the woman with murder in her heart stooped and kissed him tenderly as a mother upon his brow, knelt for an instant before him, and kissed his hand. "Good-bye," she said, "Good-bye;" and without another word left him and went upon her business to the private ward. * * * * * The recognising eyes were upon her as she opened the door. "I did not have much trouble to find you, this time," the man said. "I didn't even come here of my own accord. I don't know anything about it, except that I feel infernally bad. Can't you give me something, Marion?" "I will give you something presently," she said. "I wish to talk to you a little first." "Not until you've untied my hands. What are they tied up for, pray?" "To keep you from working mischief." "Have I done anything to that long chap that went out with you? If so I'll make amends--I'll make any amends in my power." "You shall make amends. Don't be afraid." "You speak as if you had not a particle of pity in you; you are as hard and cold as a stone, as you always were----" "Not always," she said, grimly--"unluckily for me." "Any woman who had a grain of pity in her would pity me now. I feel so frightfully bad, Marion; I believe I am going to die." "I believe you are." He called on the name of God at that, and tried ineffectually to rise, and tugged frantically at the bandages which bound him. She watched him, standing at the foot of his bed, and could smile as she watched. "You are afraid to die," she said; "I knew you would be. You were always a coward." He cursed her then. His voice was feeble now; it had lost the strength of delirium. There was something awful in the sound of such words in such trembling, exhausted tones; yet Marion, listening, smiled on. "I will not be nursed by you!" he cried. "I won't have you near me, glaring at me with your Gorgon stare. Send another nurse to me--send the doctor. Get out of my sight, Gorgon! Don't look at me. Go away!"