It was the long months of common work and mutual aspirations which had drawn her closer and closer to him. The change in their relationship had been so gradual that it needed some shock to open her eyes. The sudden realization, the day he had fallen sick, of the sharp contrast between his former strength and his utter weakness, had been the beginning. At first, when she saw that she had come to love him, it had been hard to believe. But the day after the crisis, while helping the nurse to change the bed linen, she had had to lift him. His emaciation had appalled her. And in his delirium, he had called her name. It was then that she saw clearly. One night, not long after he had given her the lecture, Liebovitz came out of the sick-room. "He's clear-headed now, and he's worrying about the paper. Go in and talk to him. Give him good news if you have to lie, and get him to sleep." Isadore opened his eyes as she leaned over him and smiled when he recognized her. He had forgotten all about _The Clarion_. But she had to say something to keep back the tears; it was so painfully wonderful to mean so much to another. "The circulation has gone up to 20,000." But he had already dropped back to sleep at the bare sight of her. It had not been a lie. The circulation was growing steadily. Isadore's sickness had seemed a spur to the energy of every one connected with the paper. The news that he was recovering had given them all a new hope, a new determination to put it on a firmer basis against his return. Isadore gradually fought his way back to life. But it was a long and dreary convalescence. There was snow on the ground when he fell sick. Summer had begun in earnest before he was able to walk across the room. One Saturday afternoon, Yetta came in joyous and found him stretched out on the lounge. "What do you think, Isadore? When the ghost walked to-day, every pay envelope was full. What do you think of that? It was a revolution. Mary Ames didn't have a chance to cry, and Levine couldn't find anything to grumble about. They were both unhappy." "I don't see why I worked so hard to get well," he said wearily. "You're getting along better without me than when I was there." "I hope you're ashamed of yourself," she said, taking off her hat and sitting down beside him. "I bring you home some good news and that's all the thanks I get." Isadore blinked his eyes hard, but in spite of himself two great tears escaped down his cheeks. "What's the matter, old fellow?" Yetta asked in dismay. "Oh, nothing. Only I'm so foolishly weak still. Of course I'm glad. Only it's easy to get discouraged." The tears escaped all control. "It's dreary coming back to life." Above all other advice, Dr. Liebovitz had insisted that Isadore should not be excited. But Yetta forgot all about that. She knelt down on the floor beside him. "Isadore, when you were very sick, you talked a good deal in your sleep. Do you know who you talked about?" "You."