“Oh! my future will be desolate indeed if I cannot work—if I cannot have any object in life—more desolate than ever, now that my path has crossed his. How can I bear it?” she moaned, when the next day after her attack, she was trying to think of a way out of the slough in which she had suddenly found herself sinking. Weakened by her illness, she had not the self-control which she usually possessed, and sobs broke from her pale lips—tears streamed over her wan cheeks. In the midst of this emotion her nurse opened the door and announced: “Dr. Winthrop, miss.” Before she could wipe her tears or check her sobs, he had entered and she could not conceal her grief. He came toward her, deep concern written upon his face, while the nurse, glad to be relieved, slipped away again. “Miss Howland!” he exclaimed, “are you in trouble? Am I intruding? Shall I go away?” She looked up at him and tried to smile, as she hastily brushed the bright drops from her cheeks. “No, do not go,” she said; “perhaps I am nervous, and need cheerful company to help me forget myself.” He brought a chair and sat beside her, a sudden determination seizing him to know the cause of her tears. He laid his usual offering upon her lap as he seated himself—a dainty bouquet of lilies of the valley. “Oh, how lovely!” she cried, and her face brightened instantly; “they are so sweet!” “Yes, they signify ‘unconscious sweetness,’ and are like some people whom I know,” said the young man significantly. “And now, Miss Howland,” he continued in a tone of gentle authority, “tell me why I find you so depressed—what is it that troubles you?” Salome met his glance with grave, sad eyes, her brightness all vanishing, and said frankly: “I was not wholly unconscious yesterday, Dr. Winthrop. I heard what you and Dr. Hunt said, regarding my condition, and I have studied _materia medica_ enough to know what atrophy of the heart means.” “Did you hear our conversation?” cried Dr. Winthrop regretfully. “And yet,” he added, “I do not know but it is better, on the whole, that you should be warned in season. Give up your work and return to your friends to be cared for. Where is your home, Miss Howland?” Salome’s white face flushed for an instant, and then grew paler than before. “I—have no home, Dr. Winthrop. I have no friends,” she replied, after a moment of hesitation. “And,” she continued, her now pallid lips quivering painfully, “if I have atrophy of the heart, and can never work any more, I—am—ready—to die. I hope I may die soon.”