A table stood by the bed, bearing a glass and a flask of brandy, also a bottle of smelling-salts. Blanche, half witless yet methodical for all her terror, was bathing her sister’s face with scent. A crumpled letter and an empty phial lay near on the scarlet coverlet of the bed. “Phyl,” she said, “Phyl,” putting her mouth close to her sister’s ear. There was some slight brightening of the dilated eyes. Ophelia’s lips moved. Her hands, flickering to and fro, entwined themselves in Blanche’s hair. “Jim,” she said—“I hear Jim’s voice—” In some such fashion she maundered on. Blanche, vigorous being that she was, shuddered as though a cold wind played upon her bosom. She reached for the glass, gulped down some brandy, coughed, and called to the girl without the door. “Florence! Florence!” The door opened a very little and a white face peered in. “Yes, miss.” “How long—” “How long, miss?” “Oh, you fool. How long has John been?” “Half an hour, miss.” “Oh, my God, only half an hour!” “The doctor’ll be here soon, miss; ’tis only four miles to Saltire.” “Go down and listen.” “Yes, miss.” “Shut the door. Oh, my God!” She turned again and hung over Ophelia, staring into the bedewed and dusky face. All the beauty had fled therefrom, for it was as the face of death, gray and inanimate. The widely dilated eyes seemed to gaze into the unknown, as though fathoming many a solemn truth. Blanche trickled brandy between the parted lips, poured scent into the palm of her hand and dashed it in her sister’s face. She dragged her higher upon the pillows, the head with its golden mass of hair rolling upon her shoulder. The blue veins showed in the white neck, where all the muscles seemed tense as cords, striving and laboring for life and air. Then through the window came the distant sound of wheels upon the road. Blanche gave a cry like a woman who hears the voice of a rescuer through the smoke of a burning house. The beat of hoofs came near apace. There was a hoarse grinding of the gravel before the house, hurried steps upon the stairs, the sound of a voice, quiet but confident, giving commands to the maid Florence. James Marjoy entered, roughly dressed, as though he had but risen from bed. Calm and self-reliant, he was a changed being in such an hour as this; and though but “Mrs. Marjoy’s husband” in his own home, he was the man when ministering to the sick. His assistant, a tall, morose-faced Scotchman, followed at his heels. Blanche, freeing herself, ran to James Marjoy and seized his arm. “Thank God you have come,” she said. “Cocaine?” “Cocaine, yes; the bottle is yonder—and that scoundrel’s letter. I heard her ring and found her like this. My poor father is away.”