“Mr. Collingwood is here, Miss,” he said, “and wants to know if you can see him.” Jeannie did not move, but her voice trembled a little. “Yes, ask him to come out here,” she said; “and bring another chair.” She rose to meet him. “Ah, how do you do?” she said. “Tell me, the baby is quite well?” “Quite well,” he said, and then there was silence. Pool brought out another chair, and still in silence they sat down. Jeannie’s heart had suddenly begun to beat furiously. “I heard from Arthur this morning,” he said, “and that is why I am here. I knew, of course, from the papers that there was an epidemic of typhoid here, and I was frightened. But his letter told me more. It told me that you spent all your days in nursing at the hospital. And I could not bear it.” Jeannie said nothing, but a great, pervading peace took possession of her troubled soul. It was as if she had suddenly passed from a stormy, mountainous sea round into a harbour, and the bacilli resumed their real dimensions. “I could not bear it,” he said, again looking at her. No word of explanation passed between them. His right to question what she did Jeannie did not dispute, and he did not miss the significance of that. “I could not help myself,” she said. “It was impossible for me not to do what I could. Oh, it has been a terrible time, and we are not at the end of it yet. Oh, these poor people!” “Leave the place, come away,” he began, suddenly and passionately, but then stopped, for he saw in Jeannie’s face the light of pity, divine and human and womanly, and all that was selfish in his love for her, all that said “I cannot live without her,” died. “Do not leave the place,” he resumed. “Do all that your heart prompts you to do. But promise me this--promise that you will leave no precaution untaken to minimize the risk to yourself. I know there is no need to ask you that, because that is your duty as much as the other, but it will comfort me to hear you say it.” “I promise you that,” said Jeannie, simply. The divine deed was done, and the word yet unspoken had changed all. Three minutes before there had been only a leaden sky, the withered, drought-yellowed grass round her, but the grass was become the paved sapphire of the courts of heaven, and the sky was the sky. Each of them was so utterly in tune with the other that Jack felt no desire to speak directly, nor did Jeannie wish it. The pause out of which music should issue was theirs. “And what is to be done with me?” he asked, in a lighter tone. “May I stop here?” “No, Jack,” she said, and the utter unconsciousness with which she spoke his name smote him with sweetness. “No, you are to go back to your work, too. We have all got our work; nothing can refute that. Tell me about the baby.” “He cries for you,” said Jack.