So great was Miss Blackall's surprise that when she found herself ousted from the position of head nurse and the door metaphorically closed upon her, she had not a word to say, but called a hansom and had herself driven to Bayswater, where she had been living since her mother's death, now nearly a year ago. "And I used to think he didn't amount to a row of pins," she murmured with an odd sort of penitence. "Well, I guess I was wrong, that's all." Through the long hours of that never-ending night John Chetwynd watched by Bella's bedside. For the most part, she lay mute and inert, but towards morning she grew restless. "I must talk," she cried excitedly--"to see you sit there and to think--to remember--oh! if only I had run straight, Jack--I don't think I was meant for this, do you?" He had no words with which to answer her. He folded his arms across his chest and looked out vaguely into the slant of room beyond. The folding doors were open and on the sideboard he could see a basket full of peaches, at this season an extravagance denied his own table. On the mantelshelf to his right hand were some exquisite hot-house flowers, carelessly crushed into a cracked, cheap little vase, and a penny packet of stationery and a powder puff in a sprinkling of chalk. She stretched out her arms so that her fingers touched him, and he held them tightly in his own--rings and all. She was never meant for the life she had chosen! His heart felt breaking. The delicate features, the sweet, wistful, childish face, the pathos in her regretful cry--the past with its load of gall and shame and misery--which could never be obliterated. Never! "Why do you look at me like that? I am better. I know I am better. I thought--I feared--I was going to die; if I had there was no one to care but--Saidie." "Do you not think what it would mean to--me?" The words broke from him against his will. "To--you, Jack! then you care--still!" "Care!" He drew his hand away and walked over to the window. The morning was breaking: morning in the Strand; and already there was a busy hum without. Her eyes followed him wistfully, with a little wonderment in them--and then the lids fell over them. "I feel strangely weak--but--so--happy, Jack," she said. Her breath came more easily and she slept. Sir John Chetwynd was in his accustomed place at the accustomed hour, grave, attentive and professional as was his wont; but after his consulting hours were over, he went back to Cecil Street, leaving word with Soames where he was to be found, if wanted, prepared for another night's vigil. "She seems neither better nor worse," said Saidie, meeting him in the little sitting-room and carefully pulling to the door behind her. "She is very, very weak. Is there a chance for her?" "I am afraid to say--it depends so much on what recuperative power she has. If the bleeding can be stopped, I shall be more hopeful." "What is she to do, poor Bella? She will never be able to sing again, I suppose?"