The two old men stared after her rather blankly as she left the room. They couldn't believe their ears. “She says she'll look after me herself,” murmured Mr Dawes hazily. Mr Riggs tucked the covers about his chin. “Don't do that, Joe! Leave things alone, darn you. She fixed 'em as they ought to be.” Mr Riggs obediently undid his work. “That's right. Now don't you do anything without askin' her, d'ye hear?” “I was only trying to make you------” “Well, don't do it. Leave everything to her.” The upshot of it all was that Mr Dawes came near to dying. Pneumonia set in at once, and for many days he fought what appeared to be a losing fight. Then came the splendid days of convalescence, the happiest days of his life. The amazing Mrs Brood did “look after him.” Nurses there were, of course, and doctors in consultation, but it was the much-berated mistress of the house who “pulled him through,” as he afterward and always declared in acrimonious disputes with Mr Riggs who, while secretly blessing the wife of Brood, could not be driven into an open admission that she had done “anything more than anybody else would have done under the circumstances,”--and not “half as much, for that matter, as he could have done had he been given a chance.” It may be well to observe here that Mr Riggs was of no earthly use whatever during the trying days. Indeed, he gave up hope the instant the doctor said “pneumonia,” and went about the house saying “My God” to himself and everybody else in sepulchral whispers, all the while urging Heaven to “please do something.” He was too pathetic for words. A new and totally unsuspected element in Yvonne's make-up came to light at this troublous period. She forsook many pleasures, many comforts in her eagerness to help the suffering old man who, she must have known, in his heart had long despised her. She did not interfere with the nurses, yet made herself so indispensable to old Mr Dawes in the capacity of “visiting angel” that his heart overflowed with gratitude and love. Even when death hung directly above his almost sightless eyes he saw her smile of encouragement in the shadows, and his spirit responded with what might justly have been called the battle-cry of life. To Brood this new side to Yvonne's far from understandable character was most gratifying. Seeing her in the rôle of good Samaritan was not so surprising to him as the real, unaffected sincerity with which she ministered to the wants of the querulous old man. Even the nurses, habitually opposed to the good offices of “the family,” were won over by this woman whose unparalleled sweetness levelled them into a condition of respect and love that surprised not only themselves but the doctors. They were quite docile from the start, and seldom, if ever, spoke of Mr Dawes as “the patient” or of his state as “the case.” They got into the habit of alluding to him as the “dear old man,” and somehow envied each other the hours “on duty.” They were never sour.