Raising his eyes to her face, as she sat beside his bed the day the specialist had given his final command, Drew whispered his hope to her. The soft, saintly eyes fell before the trusting, pitiful ones. "Dear," he said, a new doubt faced him--one he had never believed possible; "they say I will be well--quite well, there if I stay. And you and I--" but that drooping face drove him back among the shadows. "We--must--think of others." It was the voice of a self-sacrificing saint, but the heart-touch was lacking, and Drew received his sentence then and there. For a few, weak days he decided to remain and finish it all and forever. Then his manly faith bade him sternly to gather the poor remnant of his strength together; grasp the broken blade that was his only weapon, and finish the fight how and where he could. "We'll go with you, laddie," Aunt Sally whispered, hanging over this boy whom she loved as her own. "And, dear," Constance sobbed on his pillow, "she wasn't worth your love. I just knew it from the start. She's a selfish--egotistical--" a thin, feverish hand stayed the girlish outburst. "Never mind, Connie, we'll fly to the woods, and try to forget all about it." And taking advantage of the golden October calm, they came to St. Ange. Lying upon his bed in the bungalow chamber, looking out over the hills and meadows, gorgeous in autumn tints, Drew began slowly, interruptedly to be sure, but perceptibly, to gain strength. Having relinquished finally the old ideal of life, it was wonderful, even to Drew himself, to find how much seemed unimportant and trivial. It was rather shocking, in a mild way, for him to realize that a certain girl's face was growing less and less vivid. At first he attributed this to bodily weakness; then to weakness of character; finally, thank God! to common sense. With that conclusion reached, the present began feebly to be vital and full of meaning. Had perfect health been his, a call to serve the cause to which he had dedicated himself might have taken him farther than St. Ange from his old life. It was the finality of the decree that had put him in that panic. Well, he would not permit finality to hold part in his plans. He would live as if all things _might_ come to him, as to other men. It should be, day by day, and he would accept these people--if they would accept him--not as minister and parishioners, but in the larger, deeper sense--as brothers. With this outlook determined upon, a change for the better began. Before it, while the old weakness possessed him, Jock Filmer, sitting daily by his bed, was merely some one who was helping nurse the fever-racked body; afterward, Jock materialized into the most important and satisfying personality to be imagined. He was untiring in his devotion and gentleness. Caught on the rebound from the shock Gaston had caused him, Filmer went over to the new call to his friendship with an abandon that proved his own sore need of sympathy.