One morning, a few days before Christmas, La Violette sat by Douglas’s couch. Bradford had been up all night. Now he lay sleeping the sleep of utter nervous exhaustion. The fire in the middle of the room burned dimly—casting angular shadows upon the rough log walls. Outside the rain fell drearily. The earth was water-soaked; the air, fog-laden and chilly. Nothing broke the stillness of the room, but the muffled, sullen rush of the distant stream and the low, incoherent mutterings of the restless patient. Uneasily he moved his head from side to side, and aimlessly picked at imaginary objects in the air. He was the shadow of his magnificent self. His hollow, burning eyes were wide open and staring; his parched lips, drawn apart. No color was in his face, except the hectic spots upon his sunken cheeks. La Violette was pale and worn. As she looked upon the wreck of virile manhood before her, she sighed deeply, and despondently shook her head. Even as she looked upon the sick man, an abrupt change came over him. His lips ceased to move—and gradually turned blue; his teeth set themselves with a sharp click. The hectic spots upon his cheeks faded, leaving his face of marble whiteness; and an icy sweat bathed his brow and temples. A rigor shook his emaciated form from head to foot; his breathing became irregular. La Violette caught his hand in hers, and found it cold and clammy. Springing to her feet, she ran to Bradford and aroused him. He was wide awake in an instant. “What’s the matter?” he inquired anxiously. “_He—is—dying!_” The words fell like leaden balls. Bradford felt each of them strike his heart. The girl’s face wore a horrified expression. Without waiting to hear more, Bradford ran to his patient’s bedside. After a hurried examination he announced: “The crisis has arrived! He’s not dying—we can yet save him. Don’t get excited—don’t lose your head. Roll that hot stone in a blanket, and place it to his feet. That’s right—you’re as steady as a clock. Heat another blanket to wrap around him. Have no fear—we shall save him. Now get me the flask of brandy and the small white powders that are in the pocket of my hunting-shirt. What a brave little woman you are!” Her hands were shaking like aspen leaves; but she obeyed his orders. When the medicines were in his possession, Bradford poured out a quantity of the fiery liquid and dropped into it the white powder. Then quickly mixing the two, he forcibly poured the whole down the dying man’s throat. Silently he watched for the effects of the powerful draught. They were not long in showing themselves. The rigor passed; and a warm glow suffused the patient’s neck and face, and rose to his temples. Pulse and respiration gradually grew steadier—stronger; and feet and hands regained their accustomed warmth. A natural moisture overspread the body. And the sick man sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.