She had the sense, however, in the midst of her grumbling to send for the doctor, and before the pain was at its height he was in the room. The bitter-sweet smell of the amyl told him what had been already done. What little more he could do brought her no relief. He took out the case he always carried, hesitated, and chose a small bottle. “Get me some hot water,” he said, to Stevens. “Morphia?” she gasped. “Yes.” “Put it away.” “Because it failed once is no reason it should fail again.” “I’m in ... I’m in ... agony.” “I know.” “And there’s no hope.” “Oh, yes, you’ll get through this.” “I don’t want to ... only not to suffer. Remember, you promised.” He pretended not to hear, busying himself about her. “He has gone. I’ve stopped the cheque. Peter....” The pain rose, her voice with it, then collapsed; it was dreadful to see her. “Help me ... give me the hyoscine,” she said faintly. His hand shook, his face was ashen. “I can’t bear this ... you promised.” The agony broke over her again. He poured down brandy, but it might have been water. His heart was wrung, and drops of perspiration formed upon his forehead. She pleaded to him in that faint voice, then was past pleading, and could only suffer, then began again: “Pity me. Do something ... let me go; help me....” One has to recollect that he loved her, that he knew her heart was diseased, that there would be other such attacks. Also that Gabriel Stanton, as he feared, had proved inflexible. There would be no wedding and inevitable publicity. Then she cried to him again. And Stevens took up the burden of her cry. “For the Lord’s sake give her something, give her what she’s asking for. Human nature can’t bear no more ... look at her.” Stevens was moved, as any woman would be, or man, either, by such suffering. “Your promise!” were words that were wrung through her dry lips. Her tortured eyes raked and racked him. “I ... I can’t,” was all the answer. “If you care, if you ever cared. Your miserable weakness. Oh, if I only had a man about me!” She turned away from him for ease and he could hardly hear her. In the next paroxysm he lifted her gently on to the floor, placed a pillow under her head. He whispered to her, but she repelled him, entreated her, but she would not listen. All the time the pain went on. “You promised,” were not words,—but a moan. Desperately he took the cachet from the wrong bottle, melted it, filled his needle. When he bade Stevens roll up her sleeve, she smiled on him, actually smiled. “Dear Peter! How right I was to trust you!...” Her voice trailed. The change in her face was almost miraculous, the writhing body relaxed. She sighed. Almost it seemed as if the colour came back to her lips, to her tortured face. “Dear, good Peter,” were her last words, a message he stooped to hear. “Thank the Lord,” said Stevens piously, “she’s getting easier.” She was still lying on the floor, a pillow under her head, and they watched her silently.