Just as it unclosed, McLean came hurrying down the hall and to the surgeon, but with one glance at his face he stepped back in dismay; while the Angel, who had arisen, sank to the seat again, too dazed to come forward. The men faced each other. The Angel, with parted lips and frightened eyes, bent forward in tense anxiety. “I--I thought he was doing nicely?” faltered McLean. “He bore the operation well,” replied the surgeon, “and his wounds are not necessarily fatal. I told you that yesterday, but I did not tell you that something else probably would kill him; and it will. He need not die from the accident, but he will not live the day out.” “But why? What is it?” asked McLean hurriedly. “We all dearly love the boy. We have millions among us to do anything that money can accomplish. Why must he die, if those broken bones are not the cause?” “That is what I am going to give you the opportunity to tell me,” replied the surgeon. “He need not die from the accident, yet he is dying as fast as his splendid physical condition will permit, and it is because he so evidently prefers death to life. If he were full of hope and ambition to live, my work would be easy. If all of you love him as you prove you do, and there is unlimited means to give him anything he wants, why should he desire death?” “Is he dying?” demanded McLean. “He is,” said the surgeon. “He will not live this day out, unless some strong reaction sets in at once. He is so low, that preferring death to life, nature cannot overcome his inertia. If he is to live, he must be made to desire life. Now he undoubtedly wishes for death, and that it come quickly.” “Then he must die,” said McLean. His broad shoulders shook convulsively. His strong hands opened and closed mechanically. “Does that mean that you know what he desires and cannot, or will not, supply it?” McLean groaned in misery. “It means,” he said desperately, “that I know what he wants, but it is as far removed from my power to help him as it would be to give him a star. The thing for which he will die, he can never have.” “Then you must prepare for the end very shortly” said the surgeon, turning abruptly away. McLean caught his arm roughly. “You look here!” he cried in desperation. “You say that as if I could do something if I would. I tell you the boy is dear to me past expression. I would do anything--spend any sum. You have noticed and repeatedly commented on the young girl with me. It is that child that he wants! He worships her to adoration, and knowing he can never be anything to her, he prefers death to life. In God's name, what can I do about it?” “Barring that missing hand, I never examined a finer man,” said the surgeon, “and she seemed perfectly devoted to him; why cannot he have her?”