The priest, with a not unkindly good-by, passed on. The girl stood a moment irresolute, and then went on her way heavily and despondent. What good would it do her to go to the mission now? Three days later Dr. Leigh was waiting at the mission chapel to speak with the rector after the vesper service. He came out pale and weary, and the doctor hesitated to make known her errand when she saw how exhausted he was. “Did you wish me for anything?” he asked, after the rather forced greeting. “If you feel able. There is a girl at the Woman's Hospital who wants to see you.” “Who is it?” “It is the girl you saw on the street the other afternoon; she said she had spoken to you.” “She promised to come to the mission.” “She couldn't. I met the poor thing the same afternoon. She looked so aimless and forlorn that, though I did not remember her at first, I thought she might be ill, and spoke to her, and asked her what was the matter. At first she said nothing except that she was out of work and felt miserable; but the next moment she broke down completely, and said she hadn't a friend in the world.” “Poor thing!” said the priest, with a pang of self-reproach. “There was nothing to do but to take her to the hospital, and there she has been.” “Is she very ill?” “She may live, the house surgeon says. But she was very weak for such a trial.” Little more was said as they walked along, and when they reached the hospital, Father Damon was shown without delay into the ward where the sick girl lay. Dr. Leigh turned back from the door, and the nurse took him to the bedside. She lay quite still in her cot, wan and feeble, with every sign of having encountered a supreme peril. She turned her head on the low pillow as Father Damon spoke, saying he was very glad he could come to her, and hoped she was feeling better. “I knew you would come,” she said, feebly. “The nurse says I'm better. But I wanted to tell you--” And she stopped. “Yes, I know,” he said. “The Lord is very good. He will forgive all your sins now, if you repent and trust Him.” “I hope--” she began. “I'm so weak. If I don't live I want him to know.” “Want whom to know?” asked the father, bending over her. She signed for him to come closer, and then whispered a name. “Only if I never see him again, if you see him, you will tell him that I was always true to him. He said such hard words. I was always true.” “I promise,” said the father, much moved. “But now, my child, you ought to think of yourself, of your--” “He is dead. Didn't they tell you? There is nothing any more.” The nurse approached with a warning gesture that the interview was too prolonged. Father Damon knelt for a moment by the bedside, uttering a hardly articulate prayer. The girl's eyes were closed. When he rose she opened them with a look of gratitude, and with the sign of blessing he turned away.