Norine was the stronger, and must be roused to a sense of her responsibility. And Conway, who would gladly have taken a share of their pain upon himself, resolved to rouse her. “Norine,” he said gently, as he sat beside her bed, “Norine, you know that Jim is very ill?” “Yes,” said Norine, startled; “but he is getting better. You said that he would recover.” “I did say so,” replied Conway, “and I say so now. He will recover; he _must_ recover! But, Norine, it depends more on you than it does on me.” “On me!” exclaimed Norine. “What can I do for him?” “You can see him and comfort him. Norine, you will forgive an old friend for saying this, but you are unjust to one of the best men on earth.” “Oh, I was unjust to my husband!” moaned Norine. “I was _so_ unjust!” “I do not understand why you accuse yourself,” said Conway somewhat sharply. “I do not think that you were ever unjust before in your life, and you must not be unjust to Jim now.” “What have I done to poor Jim, doctor?” cried Norine. “How am I unjust, when I love him so? He is all I have left now--he and Clinton.” And her tears broke out afresh. Poor Conway longed to tell her that there was another one left who needed her love as badly; but he only said gently: “You know, Norine, that, right or wrong, he received his wound while endeavoring to protect you.” “Can I ever forget it?” cried Norine passionately. “Can I ever cease to reproach myself for it?” “You have nothing to reproach yourself for, and you should not reproach him.” “_I_ reproach him?” said Norine wonderingly. “How have I reproached him?” “He longs to see you,” replied Conway, “but he fears your blame. He thinks you will love him less for what has happened.” “Poor Jim!” exclaimed Norine. “I must see him at once. I am strong enough to get up, doctor. Can I see my brother?” Conway gave his consent, and left the room elated. “Jim, I have come to see you,” said Norine, as she feebly entered her brother’s room, and sank down by the side of his bed. “Dear, _dear_ Jim, I have come to tell you how much I love you.” “Oh, Norine!” was all Jim could say. Norine tried to say something soothing, but she could not do it. Those few days had made such a change in her brother--he looked so pale and feeble lying there, that she could only sink down on his bed and clasp her arms around him, murmuring broken terms of endearment, and then tears came to her relief, and the brother and sister wept together. “Better than medicine, much better than medicine,” said Conway joyfully, as he left the house--“much better than medicine,” he repeated, as he jogged away upon his little pony; and he repeated it somewhat proudly, too, as if he thought he had made a mistake in adopting the practice of medicine, and was not quite sure, after all, but diplomacy was his forte. Doctor Conway was justified in his elation, for his patients recovered rapidly from that date.