The prayer of the weak African was heard, and ere the sun went down a man of noble mien and noble heart stood at the maiden's bedside, bathing her swollen face, pushing back her silken curls, counting her rapid pulses, and once, when she slept, kissing her parched lips, e'en though he knew that with that kiss he inhaled, perhaps, his death! James De Vere had never for a day lost sight of Maude. Immediately after her return he had written to the physician requesting a daily report, and when, at last he learned that she was ill, and all alone, he came unhesitatingly, presenting a striking contrast to the timid J.C., who had heard of her illness, and at first, dared not open the letter which his cousin wrote, apprising him of Maude's affliction. But when he reflected that he could be re-vaccinated, and thus avert the dreaded evil, he broke the seal and read, commenting as follows: "Jim is a splendid fellow, though I can't see why he takes so much interest in her. Don't I have confounded luck, though? That will first, the five thousand dollars next, and now the smallpox, too. Of course she'll be marked, and look like a fright. Poor girl! I'd help her if I could," and, as the better nature of J.C. came over him, he added mournfully: "What if she should die?" But Maude did not die; and at the expiration of ten days she was so far out of danger that James De Vere yielded to the importunity of his mother, who, in an agony of terror, besought him to return. When first he came to her bedside Maude had begged of him to leave her and not risk his life in her behalf; but he silenced her objections then, and now when he bade her adieu he would not listen to her protestations of gratitude. "I would do even more for you if I could," he said. "I am not afraid of the varioloid, and henceforth I shall think gratefully of it for having dealt so lightly with you." So saying, he turned away, feeling happier than he could well express, that Maude had not only escaped from death, but that there would be no marks left to tell how near the ravager had been. Scarcely had the door closed on him when, emboldened by his last words to ask a question she greatly wished, yet dreaded to ask, Maude turned to John and said, "Am I much pitted?" Rolling up his eyes and wholly mistaking her meaning, John replied, "I aint no great of a physiognomer, but when a thing is as plain as day I can discern it as well as the next one, and if that ar' chap haint pitied you, and done a heap more'n that, I'm mistaken." "But," continued Maude, smiling at his simplicity, "I mean shall I probably be scarred?" "Oh, bless you, not a scar," answered John, "for don't you mind how he kep' the iled silk and wet rags on yer face, and how that night when you was sickest he held yer hands so you couldn't tache that little feller between yer eyes. That was the spunkiest varmint of 'em all, and may leave a mark like the one under yer ear, but it won't spile yer looks an atom."