"No." The doctor nibbled at a sandwich. Then he broke off a generous piece and swallowed it and drank a little of the hot broth. She watched him placidly. He was a short, dark man with a dark mustache that managed, somehow, at once to bristle and to droop. His clothes were shabby and creased with little folds and wrinkles across the ample front, and he sat well forward in his chair to eat the sandwiches. There was something a little grotesque about him perhaps. But to Aunt Jane's absent-minded gaze, it may be, there was nothing grotesque in the short, stout figure, eating its sandwiches.... She had seen it too many times roused to fierce struggle, holding death at arm's length and fighting, inch by inch, for a life that was slipping away. To her Dr. Carmon was not so much a man, as a mighty gripping force that did things when you needed him. "I suppose I _was_ hungry," he said. He picked up the last crumb of sandwich and smiled at her. Aunt Jane nodded. "You needed something to eat." "And some one to tell me to eat it," he replied. And with the words he was gone. The next minute Aunt Jane, sitting in the office, heard the warning toot of his motor as it turned the corner of the next street and was off for the day's work. IV In the reception-room a man was waiting. He was thick-set, with dark hair and eyes and an obstinate chin. He looked up with a doubtful flash as Aunt Jane came in. "How is she?" he demanded. He had sprung to his feet. Aunt Jane descended into a creaking chair and folded her hands quietly. "Sit down, Mr. Dalton," she said; "I'm going to tell you all about it." The words seemed to promise limitless details. He sat down, chafing a little and looking at her eagerly. She smiled on him. "Hard work waiting, isn't it?" she said. His face broke a little. "Has she come out of it?" Aunt Jane nodded. "Yes, she's got through." She rocked a little in the big chair. "She's standing it pretty well, considering," she added after a pause. "Will she get well?" The question burst at her. She looked up at him slowly--at the dark eyes and obstinate chin. "I don't know," she said. She waited a minute. "I suppose you'd rather know the truth," she asked. "Yes--yes." "I thought so." The muslin strings nodded. "When my husband died they didn't let us know how sick he was. I've always thought we might have saved him--between us--if we'd known. They wanted to spare my feelings." She looked at him inquiringly. "Yes." He waited a little less impatiently. The world was a big place. Everybody died.... Would Edith die?... He looked at her imploringly. She returned the look with one full of gentleness. "I don't see how she's going to live," she said slowly. The face under its white cap took on a trance-like look. The eyes were fixed on something unseen. She drew a quick breath.... "But I guess she will," she said with a tremulous laugh. The man's lips parted.