“Things gone badly?” he asked. “Much as I expected,” said Raeburn, taking up a Marechal Niel rose from the table and studying it abstractedly. “I've had a sentence of Auerbach's in my head all day, 'The martyrdom of the modern world consists of a long array of thousands of trifling annoyances.' These things are in themselves insignificant, but multiplication makes them a great power. You have been feeling this heat, I'm afraid. I will relieve guard, Erica. Is your article ready?” “Not quite,” she replied, pausing to arrange Haeberlein's pillows while her father raised him. “Thank you, little Herzblattchen,” he said, stroking her cheek, “auf wiedersehen.” “Auf wiedersehen,” she replied brightly and, gathering up some papers, ran downstairs to finish her work for the “Daily Review.” A few minutes later Brian came in for his second visit. “Any change?” he asked. “None, I think,” she answered, and went on with her writing with an apprehensive glance every now and then at the clock. The office boy was mercifully late however, and it must have been quite half an hour after she had left Haeberlein's room that she heard his unwelcome ring. Late as it was, she was obliged to keep him waiting a few minutes for it was exceedingly difficult in those days to get her work done. Not only was the time hard to obtain, but the writing itself was a difficulty; her mind was occupied with so many other things, and her strength was so overtasked that it was often an effort almost intolerable to sit down and write on the appointed subject. She was in the hall giving her manuscript to the boy when she saw her father come downstairs; she followed him into the study, and one look at his face told her what had happened. He was leaning back in the chair in which but a few weeks before she had seen Haeberlein himself; it came over her with a shudder that he looked almost as ill now as his friend had looked. She sat down on the arm of his chair, and slipped her hand into his, but did not dare to break the silence. At last he looked up. “I think you know it,” he said. “It is all over, Erica.” “Was Brian there?” she asked. “Happily, yes; but there was nothing to be done. The end was strangely sudden and quite painless, just what one would have wished for him. But oh, child! I can ill spare such a friend just now!” His voice failed, and great tears gathered in his eyes. He let his head rest for a minute on Erica's shoulder, conscious of a sort of relief in the clasp of arms which had so often, in weak babyhood, clung to him for help, conscious of the only comfort there could be for him as his child's kisses fell on his lips, and brow, and hair. “I am overdone, child,” he said at length as though to account for breaking down, albeit, by the confession, which but a short time before he would never have made, that his strength was failing.