Next day she rose with a strange stiffness in her throat. With her descent to the ward, it increased. And she was frightened. But at first she would not mention it, because she was loath for Kincaid to know. She felt it awkward to draw breath; by noon the difficulty was not to be concealed. She went to bed--protesting, but by Kincaid's command. Nurse Brettan had become a patient. She said how queer it was to be in the familiar room in this unfamiliar way. The nurse whose watch of Archie she had relieved was chosen to attend on her; and Mary chaffed her weakly on her task. "It ought to be a good patient this spell, Sophie! If I'm a nuisance, you may shake me." But to Kincaid she spoke more earnestly now the danger-signal was displayed. "You did all you could to stop me, doctor. Whatever happens, you'll remember that! You did everything that was right, and so did I." "Don't talk rubbish about 'happenings,' Nurse!" he said; "we shall want you to be up and at work again directly." Nevertheless, she grew worse as the child grew stronger; and for a fortnight the man who loved her suffered fiercer pain each time he answered "Rubbish!" And the man whom she loved sought daily tidings of her when he called to view the progress of his boy. She used to hear of his inquiries and turn her face on the pillow, and lie for a long while very quiet. Her distaste to meeting him had gone and she craved for him to come to her. But now she could not bring herself to let him do it, because her neck and face were so swollen and unsightly, and her voice had dwindled to a whisper that was not nice to hear. Then all hope was at an end--it was known that she was dying. And one morning the nurse said to her: "Perhaps this afternoon you'd like to see him? He has asked again." "This afternoon?" Momentarily her eyes brightened, but the shame of her unloveliness came back to her, and she sighed. "Give me ... the glass, Sophie ... there's a dear!" She looked up at her reflection in the narrow mirror held aslant over the bed. "No," she said feebly, "not this afternoon. Perhaps tor morrow." The girl put back the glass without speaking. And a gaze followed her questioningly till she left. When Kincaid came in, Mary asked him how long she had to live. He was worn with a night of agony--a night whose marks the staff had observed and wondered at. "How long?" she asked; "I know I can't get better. When's it going to be?" He clenched his teeth to curb the twitching of his mouth. "It isn't _now_?" "No, no," he said. "You shouldn't, you _mustn't_ frighten yourself like this!" "To-day?" "Not to-day," he answered hoarsely, "I honestly believe." "To-morrow?" "Mary!" "To-morrow?" she pleaded in the same painful whisper. "Tell me the truth. What to-morrow?" "I think--to-morrow you may know how much I loved you." She did not move; and he had turned aside. He noticed it was raining and how the drops spattered on the window-sill.