Ingeborg sped down the stairs and found the solicitor enjoying a cup of coffee in the sitting-room. She explained the case to him and he agreed to draw up a codicil annulling all former wills, in the tenour of the will destroyed by Fru Boyesen after Ragna's marriage and to hold it in readiness. Accordingly he set to work and Ingeborg returned to the sick chamber. They waited some time and as there was still no sign of returning consciousness Dr. Ericssen tried the hypodermic of caffeine, but without effect, except for a slightly stronger pulse, the stertorous breathing continued unchanged. Solicitor and doctor supped together, in a gloomy silence, while Ingeborg, unwilling to leave her aunt, had a tray sent up to her; after which the doctor returned to his patient and the man of law to his post by the fire. The evening dragged on drearily; Ingeborg sat despondently by the bedside; it all seemed such cruel irony--the waiting solicitor, the fate of her sister hanging in the balance, dependent on that unconscious figure on the bed. Towards morning there was a change, patent even to the inexperienced eyes of the girl. Fru Boyesen opened her eyes, but they appeared oblivious of her immediate surroundings, they were fixed on space, and seemed to have a glaze over them; her lips moved, and bending over her, Ingeborg caught the words: "Solicitor--Ragna!" "Quick!" she said to the doctor; he ran to the landing and called Hendriksen, who gathered up his papers, pen, ink, and seals, and bounded up the stairs. "Oh!" thought Ingeborg, "if only there is time--if only she is able to sign!" She poured some brandy into a spoon, but as she turned to administer it, the sick woman's head fell back on the pillow, and her jaw dropped--Herr Hendriksen approaching, pen and paper in hand, stopped, hesitating. Ingeborg dropped the spoon, brandy and all, and the doctor rushed forward; one glance was enough; he waved the solicitor back, his services were no longer required. Poor Aunt Gitta! she had put off, too long, her work of reparation, and now it was too late. Too late! These are indeed the "saddest words of tongue or pen," a lower circle in the Inferno of Fate than the poet's "it might have been!" Alas! for those to whom the long sought opportunity, the ardently desired happiness comes at last, and finds the sands run down in the glass, the vital energy spent. The chance is there, but an ironical voice gives the sentence "Too late!" And alas, above all, for those, who in the sunset of life see in retrospect, the false turning, the long weary miles of the road they have followed, and which they would retrace, ere darkness fall, and the night come,--but the stern voice says: "Ye have wasted the precious years, ye have put life and strength into that which is vain, and ye would unravel the strand of the Fates and plait it up afresh when the shears of Atropos are already extended? Too late! Remorse is not reparation."