He went slowly forward to the chair that the nurse placed for him. Seating himself quietly beside his patient, and bending forward with intense interest, his fine old head bowed, he regarded with more than professional care the wasted face upon the pillow. The doctor remembered, too well, when those finely moulded features--now, so worn by sorrow, so marked by sickness, so ghastly in the hue of death--were rounded with young-woman health and tinted with rare loveliness. He recalled that day when he saw her a bride. He remembered the sweet, proud dignity of her young wifehood. He saw her, again, when her face shone with the glad triumph and the holy joy of motherhood. The old physician turned from his patient, to look with sorrowful eyes about the room that was to witness the end. Why was such a woman dying like this? Why was a life of such rich mental and spiritual endowments--of such wealth of true culture--coming to its close in such material poverty? The doctor was one of the few who knew. He was one of the few who understood that, to the woman herself, it was necessary. There were those who--without understanding, for the sake of the years that were gone--would have surrounded her with the material comforts to which, in her younger days, she had been accustomed. The doctor knew that there was one--a friend of her childhood, famous, now, in the world of books--who would have come from the ends of the earth to care for her. All that a human being could do for her, in those days of her life's tragedy, that one had done. Then--because he understood--he had gone away. Her own son did not know--could not, in his young manhood, have understood, if he had known--would not understand when he came. Perhaps, some day, he would understand--perhaps. When the physician turned again toward the bed, to touch with gentle fingers the wrist of his patient, his eyes were wet. At his touch, her eyes opened to regard him with affectionate trust and gratitude. "Well Mary," he said almost bruskly. The lips fashioned the ghost of a smile; into her eyes came the gleam of that old time challenging spirit. "Well--Doctor George," she answered. Then,--"I--told you--I would not--go--until he came. I must--have my way--still--you see. He will--come--to-day He must come." "Yes, Mary," returned the doctor,--his fingers still on the thin wrist, and his eyes studying her face with professional keenness,--"yes, of course." "And George--you will not forget--your promise? You will--give me a few minutes--of strength--when he comes--so that I can tell him? I--I--must tell him myself--George. You--will do--this last thing--for me?" "Yes, Mary, of course," he answered again. "Everything shall be as you wish--as I promised." "Thank you--George. Thank you--my dear--dear--old friend."