"She's a sly cat," said Barrington, alluding to the nurse, "and watches me out of the tail of her eye. Hall's as bad. They are in league together." "Well, they shall not come in more than I can help. I will nurse you myself." "No; not you," said Barrington, his face looking red and uneasy. "I'll not trouble _you_." She sat down in my chair, just pressing my hand in token of greeting. And I left them. In the ensuing days his life trembled in the balance; and even when part of the more immediate danger was surmounted, part of the worst of the pain, it was still a toss-up. Barrington had no hope whatever: I don't think Mrs. Hearn had, either. She hardly left him. At first he seemed to resent her presence; to wish her away; to receive unwillingly what she did for him; but, in spite of himself he grew to look round for her, and to let his hand lie in hers whenever she chose to take it. Who can tell what she said to him? Who can know how she softly and gradually awoke the better feelings within him, and won his heart from its hardness? She did do it, and that's enough. The way was paved for her. What the accident had not done, the fear of death had. Tamed him. One evening when the sun had sunk, leaving only a fading light in the western sky, and Barrington had been watching it from his bed, he suddenly burst into tears. Mrs. Hearn busy amongst the physic bottles, was by his side in a moment. "Wolfe!" "It's very hard to have to die." "Hush, my dear, you are not worse: a little better. I think you may be spared; I do indeed. And--in any case--you know what I read to you this evening: that to die is gain." "Yes, for some. I've never had my thoughts turned that way." "They are turned now. That is quite enough." "It is such a little while to have lived," went on Barrington, after a pause. "Such a little while to have enjoyed earth. What are my few years compared with the ages that have gone by, with the ages and ages that are to come. Nothing. Not as much as a drop of water to the ocean." "Wolfe, dear, if you live out the allotted years of man, three score and ten, what would even that be in comparison? As you say--nothing. It seems to me that our well-being or ill-being here need not much concern us: the days, whether short or long, will pass as a dream. Eternal life lasts for ever; soon we must all be departing for it." Wolfe made no answer. The clear sky was assuming its pale tints, shading off one into another, and his eyes were looking at them. But it was as if he saw nothing. "Listen, my dear. When Archibald died, _I_ thought I should have died; died of grief and pain. I grieved to think how short had been his span of life on this fair earth; how cruel his fate in being taken from it so early. But, oh, Wolfe, God has shown me my mistake. I would not have him back again if I could." Wolfe put up his hand to cover his face. Not a word spoke he.