“We are a little anxious about him,” his sister had said, and she had mentioned the word “blood-poisoning.” Of the full meaning of that dread word Kathleen had little knowledge, but it held for her a horror of something unspeakably dangerous. He had been restless, sleepless, suffering for the last two days and two nights. That very night and that very hour he was perhaps tossing in fever. An uncontrollable longing came over her to go to him. Perhaps she might give him a few hours' rest, might indeed help to give him the turn to health again. After all, what mattered her feelings. What difference if he should despise her, provided she brought him help in an hour of crisis. Physically weary with the long struggle through which she had been passing during the last ten days, sick at heart, and torn with anxiety for the man she loved, she threw herself upon her bed and abandoned herself to a storm of tears. Her mother came announcing tea, but this she declined, pleading headache and a desire to sleep. But no sooner had her mother withdrawn than she rose from her bed and with deliberate purpose sat herself down in front of her mirror again. She would have this out with herself now. “Well, you are a beauty, sure enough,” she said, addressing her swollen and disfigured countenance. “Why can't you behave naturally? You are acting like a fool and you are not honest with yourself. Come now, tell the truth for a few minutes if you can. Do you want to go and see this man or not? Answer truly.” “Well, I do then.” The blue eyes looked back defiantly at her. “Why? to help him? for his sake? Come, the truth.” “Yes, for his sake, at least partly.” “And for your own sake, too? Come now, none of that. Never mind the blushing.” “Yes, for my own sake, too.” “Chiefly for your own sake?” “No, I do not think so. Chiefly I wish to help him.” “Then why not go?” Ah, this is a poser. She looks herself fairly in the eye, distinctly puzzled. Why should she not simply go to him and help him through a bad hour? With searching, deliberate persistence she demanded an answer. She will have the truth out of herself. “Why not go to him if you so desire to help him?” “Because I am ashamed, because I have made myself cheap, and I cannot bear his eyes upon me. Because if I have made a mistake and he does not care for me--oh, then I never want to see him again, for he would pity me, and that I cannot bear.” “What? Not even to bring him rest and relief from his pain? Not to help him in a critical hour? He has been asking for you, remember.” Steadily they face each other, eye to eye, and all at once she is conscious that the struggle is over, and, looking at the face in the glass, she says, “Yes, I think I would be willing to do that for him, no matter how it would shame me.” Another heart-searching pause, and the eyes answer her again, “I will go to-morrow.” At once she reads a new peace in the face that gazes at her