“Won’t you tell me, sir,” she said. “Is it—is it—” “It is very serious,” the doctor said gravely; and added with impressive slowness, “very serious indeed.” The woman took a grip of the table, and caught three quick breaths. “You must keep yourself calm, and you must bear up. You must prepare yourself—in case of something very bad indeed.” Twice she tried to speak, but was mute; and then, “No hope?” she said, more to sight than to hearing. He put his hand kindly on her shoulder. “It would be wrong of me to encourage it,” he said. “As for what I can do, it is all over. . . . But you must bear up,” he went on firmly, as, guided to a chair, she bent forward and covered her face. “Drink this—” He took a small bottle from his bag, poured something into a cup and added water. “Drink it—drink it up; all of it. . . . I must go. . . . You’ve your children to think of, remember. Come to your mother, my boy. . . . ” He was gone, and the children stood with their arms about their mother. The old man’s breathing, which had grown heavier and louder still, presently eased again, and his eyes closed drowsily. At this the woman looked up with an impossible hope in her heart. Truly, the breath was soft and natural, and the drawn lines had gone from the face: he must be sleeping. Why had she not thought to ask Bob Smallpiece to carry him up to bed? And why had the doctor not ordered it? Softly she turned the wet cloth that lay over the wound. The breath grew lighter and still lighter, and more peaceful the face, till one might almost trace a smile. Quieter and quieter, and still more peaceful: till all was peace indeed. VI.