“At least lie here until I send off the telegram and bring you news of my patient.” “Tell me first, is there any immediate prospect of his death?” shudderingly. “None that I could see. There is a fracture of the left leg and a cut on his head. Unless there are internal injuries, he might stand a chance, a bare chance, for recovery, but that long syncope was so alarming that I have scarcely any hope of saving him.” “I will rest here till you return, doctor, then I must go to him. I tell you no one shall prevent me. I knew him long ago. My duty is by his side now.” He saw by her frantic obstinacy that there was more beneath the surface than her words revealed. To oppose her would be quite useless. So he said, assentingly: “It shall be as you wish, and perhaps his sister will be glad of your help. She is a feeble old woman, sadly shaken by the shock. But at least lie quiet till my return, perfectly quiet, please.” “I will,” she replied, reluctantly enough; and when he was gone, she turned toward Janetta, saying: “This wounded man, Mr. Dawn, was a dear friend of my youth, and for the sake of past days, we must help his sister to nurse him till his daughter comes--or till he dies,” shudderingly again. Janetta replied with secret amazement: “I will do my best, madame, and I have been counted a skillful nurse, but I think you are quite too ill to leave your room--at least till to-morrow.” “I am stronger than you think. My will-power will help me through,” replied the obstinate lady; and then she asked Janetta to dim the light and throw a gauze handkerchief over her face. Janetta obeyed, then lay down on a sofa to watch and wait for the doctor’s return. She pretended to be asleep, thinking that this would suit her mistress best. Soon she heard low, stifled sobs from beneath the tiny handkerchief, and guessed that an hysterical mood had followed on Mrs. Varian’s startling illness and agitation. It was remarkable for Mrs. Varian--the proud, the cold, the imperious woman--but Janetta knew it was best to take no notice and attempt no soothing. The icy crust of years was broken up at last, and tears must have their way. They were the greatest panacea for hidden grief. But the alert maid said to herself: “Such grief is not for an old friend simply. Doubtless he was once her lover. Then estrangement followed and broke their vows. I remember now that she became ill on the train at the sight of him, and abruptly changed her mind, getting off here to spend the night. Well, the Lord’s hand was in it, for we might have been killed had we stayed on the train,” she concluded, without stopping to ask herself why she and Mrs. Varian should have been of so much more value to the world than others that He should have taken special care to save their lives.