For hours after she was brought home Gwen lay insensible. The doctor did nothing. “Her physique alone will help her,” he said, when Strange seemed to demand action of some sort. “She will regain her consciousness all right,” he said. “There is another complication, I believe,” he added, looking keenly at Strange, “but the treatment of that must come later.” Again the horrid coldness paralyzed Humphrey’s very marrow. “In view of this,” the doctor went on, “what about her mother being summoned?” Strange thought for a moment. Her mother was, of course, quite out of the question, and he remembered that Mrs. Fellowes was ill. “Is this necessary at once?” he asked. “No, I will tell you when the need arises—that is, if any should. Her physique would tide over almost anything.” As the clock began to strike midnight, Strange saw the doctor stoop suddenly, and lay his head on Gwen’s heart, then open her eyes and touch her eyeballs. When he raised himself his face had altered. “Now we shall soon see a change,” he said, “perhaps you had better stand back, even the shock of joy might hurt her.” Strange gave a ghastly grin in the shadow of the curtain. By a superhuman effort in all those hours of anguished waiting, even when the doctor and the nurse, in their consideration, had left him alone for the purpose, Strange had never once kissed or caressed his wife, or even so much as touched her except in matters of service. Gwen stirred almost imperceptibly, the doctor looked round the curtain at Strange. “Touch her, and speak to her very gently,” he said. He bent gently over her. “Gwen, wake up, dear, wake up, sweetheart!” He wondered the next second “why the devil” he said it. Perhaps the absurdity of the words struck Gwen’s grim sense of humour, she certainly stirred uneasily and made a feeble pathetic little try to throw up the limp hand that lay on the quilt. Strange moved back under cover of his curtain. “Good!” said the doctor, “try again.” He was watching Strange’s face with some interest. “He has aged ten years in eight hours, poor devil!” he thought, then he took a long survey of his patient, “I wonder if she is worth it all, she is a trifle too superb for me! She looks like one of those women who keep their flesh too much under.” Gradually Gwen’s stirrings grew stronger and more frequent, and at last she opened her eyes slowly and looked out with vague questioning. “What is it?” she whispered. “You have been ill, dear.” “Ill?” she murmured perplexedly. “I want light.” The doctor moved the screens from before the candles, Gwen raised her head feebly. “What is it?” she asked again. The doctor lifted her and gave her a draught he had ready, she was too weak to resist him, and presently she fell off into a drowsy half-slumber. After what seemed to Strange a lifetime, she again moved, woke, and repeated the old question, this time audibly and with a tinge of imperiousness.