As Sommers's careworn face flushed, she added hurriedly,--"How cruel of me! Of course you don't know. That will settle itself." "I have had some notion of trying for a hospital again. It doesn't take much to live. And I don't believe in a doctor's making money. If it isn't the hospital--well, there's enough to do." Miss Hitchcock thought a moment, and then remarked unexpectedly, "I like that idea!" "About all my kick over things has come to that point. There are some people who should be willing to--no, not willing, who should _want_ to do things without any pay. The world needs them. Most people are best off in the struggle for bread, but the few who see how--unsatisfying that end is, should be willing to work without profits. Good-by." As they shook hands, Sommers added casually: "I shouldn't wonder if I went away from Chicago--for a time. I don't know now, but I'll let you know, if you care to have me." "Of course I shall care to know!" Miss Hitchcock's voice trembled, and then steadied itself, as she added,--"And I am glad you are thinking of it." * * * * * With a sense of relief Sommers found himself alone, and free to return to the temple, to Alves, for the last time. The day had been crowded with insistent, petty details, and he marvelled that he had submitted to them patiently. In the chamber where the dead woman lay it was strangely still--deserted by all things human. He locked the doors and sat down for his second night of watch, reproaching himself for the hours he had lost this day. But when he looked at the cold, white face upon the pillow, that already seemed the face of one who had travelled far from this life, he felt that it had been best as it was. He kissed the silent lips and covered the face; he would not look at it again. Alves had gone. To-morrow he would lay this body in the little burial plot of the seminary above the Wisconsin lakes. Already Alves had bequeathed him something of herself. She had returned him to his fellow-laborers with a new feeling toward them, a humbleness he had never known, a desire to adjust himself with them. He was sensitive to the kindness of the day,--White's friendly trust, Leonard's just words, Miss Hitchcock's generosity. As the sense of this life faded from the woman he loved, the dawn of a fairer day came to him. And his heart ached because she for whom he had desired every happiness might never respond to human joy. CHAPTER XI