During the next fortnight, Louis and Pinkie met almost every day; for Freddy was sinking fast, and both were assiduous in their attendance upon him. It would seem almost impossible that under such circumstances some of the old childish familiarity should not have revived; but Miss Randolph had profited excellently by her Parisian sojourn. She was perfectly able to be to one of her babyhood’s playmates all sisterly tenderness, at the same moment that to the other she was only icy politeness; for she had thoroughly learned that the whole duty of woman is to make a rich marriage. Louis did not molest her. He met her coldness with grave, kind courtesy, and treated her so exactly as one whom he had had the pleasure of knowing only a short time, that Pinkie’s girlish heart was hot within her, and she burned to teach him with whom he had to deal. But at present this was impossible, since they never met without witnesses. For some months, Dr. Richards’s physical condition had been such that there seemed small prospect of his ever again practising his profession, for, though he was able with difficulty to move about the rooms of one floor, he could not walk up or down stairs. Accordingly he had rented his offices to Edgar Harrison, a calm, determined-looking young man just starting in life as an M.D., who, in addition to the vigorous practice of his profession, displayed quite an astral faculty for being always on hand to intercept Miss Randolph’s comings and goings. Pinkie, of course, turned up her nose at him as a struggling physician; yet, as it would not have done to be unkind to the poor fellow, gave him plenty of smiles, accepted his modest tributes of flowers, and half promised to take a drive with him some day, when Freddy should be better. It was not long before Freddy was quite well. They were all around him at the last, his mother supporting him in her arms, white as he, but terribly composed; Dr. Richards, in a great chair drawn close beside the bed, held one transparent hand as though he could thus retain the pure spirit that was soon to flutter forth—whither? to annihilation? The father’s clasp was the clutch of despair. Louis was close upon the other side of the narrow couch, now and again wiping the cold dews from his friend’s forehead. They thought him past speaking; but his eyes were open, watching eagerly, gladly,—what? Louis knew; Louis, who had tried in his babyhood to heal the sick, and in youth had followed the white Form down the wreck-laden river. And it may be that the brightening spirit felt the unspoken sympathy, for slowly the brown eyes and the blue met in a long, loving, comprehending look. It seemed to recall him once more to earth, for the wonderful gaze turned next upon Pinkie, who knelt sobbing at her uncle’s feet. “Don’t—cry—Pinkie,” he said, gaspingly. “Freddy!” It was the cry of a strong man in doubt and agony. Freddy looked in his father’s face with a smile. “HE will take care of me, father,” he said.