“No. I’m used to it. Would you care for me to stay with you?” “Yes, I should like you to. I don’t understand much about it. I think it would be best for us both to stay--I--I----” She did not finish, but moved over to the bedside. Patches’ half-closed eyes opened for the second, and he smiled--that smile that almost breaks the heart of the hungering watcher--and he moved his arm feebly along the folded sheet for her to take his hand. She took the hand and kissed it, then held it in her own, and her heart seemed bound in by a strong band of iron that prevented her moving or crying at all. Thus for a long time they sat in silence, the nurse back in her accustomed seat, only the quick, troubled breathing, with its occasional pause and jerking, sounding through the little house. Then the door downstairs opened, a step on the staircase, the nurse rose again, Marigold sat still, her back to the bedroom door, and with the doctor’s entry the tension seemed broken--perhaps because he spoke naturally enough, not in a whisper. “You here still, Nurse? I thought you went off duty at nine o’clock.” “He is so much worse I thought I had better stay till the end.” “You will not be needed--or, if so, I’ll send on for you. Good-morning!” She took up her belongings, and quietly retired. Patches still lay with his eyes closed, Marigold sitting by him. The doctor knelt down by the bedside, and she half-turned her head to look at him--jealously, yet with admiration. For what a contrast there was in these two figures before her! One, broad-shouldered, tall, the very embodiment of life and strength and intellect; the other, tiny and feeble, past thought, past all exertion--only a few little sparks of love left in his tiny frame. The doctor took his other hand and bent over him carefully, so as not to exclude what air there was in the room. “Timothy,” he said very clearly, and a little louder than he generally spoke, “I’ve come for you--to take you. Won’t you give me both your hands?” Again the feeble smile and the half-opening of his eyes, and then he raised his hand with Marigold’s, and drew it across. Her heart beat with a certain triumphant pleasure, for his fingers had tightened over hers, almost miraculously, considering his weak state. And the doctor took the two clasped hands, and he smiled, and very gently, very firmly, unclasped them from each other. It was the first time that her hand had come in contact with his, and in the thrill, as he took her hand in both of his, Marigold forgot the harsh presence of Death, and scarcely understood what he was doing, till her hand fell almost heavily upon the bed, and the little hand she coveted was lost within another’s.