It came over her as a conviction that if she were elsewhere--in Benham, for instance--her husband could be readily and brilliantly cured. This impassive mode of treatment seemed to her of one piece with the entire Littleton surroundings, the culmination of which was Pauline smiling in the face of death. She yearned to do something active and decided. Yet, how helpless she was! This arbitrary doctor was following his own dictates without a word to anyone, and without suspecting the existence of wiser expedients. In a moment of rebellion she rose, and swiftly approaching Wilbur's bed, exclaimed, fervently: "Is there not something we can do for you, darling? Something you feel will do you good?" The sufferer faintly smiled and feebly shook his head, and at the same moment she was drawn away by a firm hand, and Dr. Page whispered: "He is very weak. Entire rest is his only chance. The least exertion is a drain on his vitality." "Surely there must be some medicine--some powerful application which will help his breathing," she retorted, and she detected again the semblance of laughter in the doctor's eyes. "Everything which modern science can do is being done, Mrs. Littleton." What was there but to resume her seat and helpless vigil? Modern science? The word grated on her ears. It savored to her of narrow medical tyranny, and distrust of aspiring individuality. Wilbur was dying, and all modern science saw fit to do was to give him brandy and wait. And she, his wife--the one who loved him best in the world, was powerless to intervene. Nay, she had intervened, and modern science had mocked her. Selma's eyes, like the glint of two swords, bent themselves on her husband's bed. A righteous anger reinforced her grieving heart and made her spirit militant, while the creeping hours passed. Over and over she pursued the tenor of her protest until her wearied system sought refuge in sleep. She was not conscious of slumbering, but she reasoned later that she must have slept, for she suddenly became conscious of a touch on the shoulder and a vibrant utterance of her name. "Selma, Selma, you must come at once." Her returning wits realized that it was Pauline who was arousing her and urging her to Wilbur's bed-side. She sprang forward, and saw the light of existence fading from her husband's eyes into the mute dulness of death. Dr. Page was bending over him in a desperate, but vain, effort to force some restorative between his lips. At the foot of the bed stood the nurse, with an expression which betrayed what had occurred. "What is it, Wilbur? What have they done to you? What has happened?" Selma cried, looking from one to the other, though she had discerned the truth in a flash. As she spoke, Dr. Page desisted from his undertaking, and stepped back from the bed, and instantly Selma threw herself on her knees and pressed her face upon Littleton's lifeless features. There was no response. His spirit had departed.