“Look,” she said, holding the newspaper toward him, “is that true? Or is it only a sensation trap or written for party purposes?” Her delicate lips were closed with their hardest expression, her eyes only looked grave and questioning. She watched his face as he read, lost her last hope, and with the look of such anguish as he had never before seen, drew the paper from him, and caught his hand in hers in wild entreaty. “Oh, Brian, Brian! Is there no hope? Surely you can do something for him. There MUST be hope, he is so strong, so full of life.” He struggled hard for voice and words to answer her, but the imploring pressure of her hands on his had nearly unnerved him. Already the grief that kills lurked in her eyes he knew that if her father died she would not long survive him. “Don't say what is untrue,” she continued. “Don't let me drive you into telling a lie but only tell me if there is indeed no hope no chance.” “It may be,” said Brian. “You must not expect, for those far wiser than I say it can not be. But I hope yes, I still hope.” On that crumb of comfort she lived, but it was a weary day, and for the first time she noticed that her father, who was free from fever, followed her everywhere with his eyes. She knew intuitively that he thought himself dying. Toward evening she was sitting beside him, slowly drawing her fingers through his thick masses of snow-white hair in the way he liked best, when he looked suddenly right into her eyes with his own strangely similar ones, deep, earnest eyes, full now of a sort of dumb yearning. “Little son Eric,” he said, faintly, “you will go on with the work I am leaving.” “Yes, father,” she replied firmly, though her heart felt as if it would break. “A harmful delusion,” he murmured, half to himself, “taking up our best men! Swallowing up the money of the people. What's that singing, Erica?” “It is the children in the hospital,” she replied. “I'll shut the window if they disturb you, father.” “No,” he said. “One can tolerate the delusion for them if it makes their pain more bearable. Poor bairns! Poor bairns! Pain is an odd mystery.” He drew down her hand and held it in his, seeming to listen to the singing, which floated in clearly through the open window at right angles with the back windows of the hospital. Neither of them knew what the hymn was, but the refrain which came after every verse as if even the tinies were joining in it was quite audible to Luke Raeburn and his daughter. “Through life's long day, and death's dark night, Oh, gentle Jesus, be our light.” Erica's breath came in gasps. To be reminded then that life was long and that death was dark!