“Yes, back again, old boy!” he murmured, smiling as I grasped his hand. “_He_,” indicating Eric, who stood near, “saved my life—_He_ brought me back. Next to God, we must thank _him_, Muriel, my wife!” Silently I shook hands with Eric and with the Earl: and with one consent we moved into the shaded side of the room, where we could talk without disturbing the invalid, who lay, silent and happy, holding his wife’s hand in his, and watching her with eyes that shone with the deep steady light of Love. “He has been delirious till to-day,” Eric explained in a low voice: “and even to-day he has been wandering more than once. But the sight of _her_ has been new life to him.” And then he went on to tell us, in would-be careless tones—I knew how he hated any display of feeling—how he had insisted on going back to the plague-stricken town, to bring away a man whom the doctor had abandoned as dying, but who _might_, he fancied, recover if brought to the hospital: how he had seen nothing in the wasted features to remind him of Arthur, and only recognised him when he visited the hospital a month after: how the doctor had forbidden him to announce the discovery, saying that any shock to the over taxed brain might kill him at once: how he had staid on at the hospital, and nursed the sick man by night and day—all this with the studied indifference of one who is relating the commonplace acts of some chance acquaintance! “And this was his _rival_!” I thought. “The man who had won from him the heart of the woman he loved!” [Illustration: ‘HIS WIFE KNELT DOWN AT HIS SIDE’] “The sun is setting,” said Lady Muriel, rising and leading the way to the open window. “Just look at the western sky! What lovely crimson tints! We shall have a glorious day to-morrow——” We had followed her across the room, and were standing in a little group, talking in low tones in the gathering gloom, when we were startled by the voice of the sick man, murmuring words too indistinct for the ear to catch. “He is wandering again,” Lady Muriel whispered, and returned to the bedside. We drew a little nearer also: but no, this had none of the incoherence of delirium. “_What reward shall I give unto the Lord_,” the tremulous lips were saying, “_for all the benefits that He hath done unto me? I will receive the cup of salvation, and call—and call_——” but here the poor weakened memory failed, and the feeble voice died into silence. His wife knelt down at the bedside, raised one of his arms, and drew it across her own, fondly kissing the thin white hand that lay so listlessly in her loving grasp. It seemed to me a good opportunity for stealing away without making her go through any form of parting: so, nodding to the Earl and Eric, I silently left the room. Eric followed me down the stairs, and out into the night. “Is it Life or Death?” I asked him, as soon as we were far enough from the house for me to speak in ordinary tones.