Within himself he thought sadly that the conventionalities of the world were out of place now, when both were hovering on the border of the Unknown Land. Why not sit beside the dying girl and soothe her last sad hours? But with a pensive smile she answered: "No; go to your rest, dear friend. I shall do very well alone, but if I feel ill again I will call you." Thus dismissed, he wheeled his sofa, as usual, into the dark and gloomy little passage outside the door. Then, lingering to press the little hand and say good-night more tenderly than ever in the presentiment that weighed upon him, she startled him by a shrill, frightened cry: "Oh!" The light had given one expiring flare and gone out, leaving them in darkness. "Are you afraid? Shall I leave my door ajar?" he asked, gently. "No, no," she answered, quickly. "Very well, then; but I shall not go to sleep. I shall lie awake to guard you from any fancied danger," he said; and sighed, knowing that there was nothing to fear save the grim, gaunt hunger-wolf. He struck a match that he might smile once more, sadly but tenderly, into the pale, patient face. She smiled bravely in return. "My good friend, good-night," she said gently; and with a sigh he left her to hold a patient, wakeful vigil outside her door. Hours passed without a sound from the dark, inner chamber, where Marie lay huddled among the pillows in feverish sleep. At last, dizziness and weariness fairly conquered him; his head drooped to the arm of the sofa, and he, too, slept. It seemed scarce a minute since his heavy eyes had shut before he started up with a confused cry. Had some one called his name? Some sort of a sound certainly echoed in his ears; it resolved itself into _her_ voice. Marie's voice calling out loud and strange and incessant, with incoherent words. He tore open the door wildly and struck one of his precious matches. She lay there among the pillows, with vacant, wide-open eyes fixed on the ceiling, babbling in wild delirium of cool springs and fountains, of summer showers, of falling dew, her parched lips panting with fever. "Oh, my God! if the world were mine, I would give it for one draught of water for my suffering little darling!" he cried aloud, with the agony of a man's heart driven to bay. The dim flame of the match died into darkness again, and he stood by the bed, holding her hot little hand in his, listening in agony to her delirious ravings. "This is the cruelest hour of my life!" he muttered. "Death, when it comes, will not be half so bitter." By the aid of another match he looked at his watch. It was five o'clock, and outside he knew that the day was near its dawn; but within the chamber where he watched by the side of the dying girl all was thick darkness and gloom, and his stock of matches was running so low that he dared not light one as often as he wished.