“Yes, ma’am; we’ve made a hospital of this; the Captain’s got the best room in it, and now he’s got the best miss that’s goin’ anywheres. Won’t you have a drop of something jest as a stand-by before you see him?” “Nothing; take me to him at once.” “Here we be then. Still sleepin’: that looks well.” Mr. Wilkins softly led the way down a long hall, opened a door, and after one look fell back and saluted as the Captain’s wife passed in. A surgeon was bending over the low bed, and when a hoarse voice at his elbow asked: “How is he?” The doctor answered without looking up: “Done for: this shot through the lungs will finish him before morning I’m afraid.” “Then leave him to me: I am his wife,” said the voice, clear and sharp now with the anguish those hard words had brought. “Good God, why did no one tell me! My dear lady, I thought you were a nurse!” cried the poor surgeon rent with remorse for what now seemed the brutal frankness of his answer, as he saw the white face of the woman at his side, with a look in her eyes harder to see than the bitterest tears that ever fell. “I am a nurse. If you can do nothing, please go and leave him to me the little while he has to live.” Without a word the surgeon vanished, and Christie was alone with David. The instant she saw him she felt that there was no hope, for she had seen too many faces wear the look his wore to be deceived even by her love. Lying with closed eyes already sunken by keen suffering, hair damp with the cold dew on his forehead, a scarlet spot on either cheek, gray lines about the mouth, and pale lips parted by the painful breaths that came in heavy gasps or fluttered fitfully. This was what Christie saw, and after that long look she knew the truth, and sunk down beside the bed, crying with an exceeding bitter cry: “O David, O my husband, must I give you up so soon?” His eyes opened then, and he turned his cheek to hers, whispering with a look that tried to be a smile, but ended in a sigh of satisfaction: “I knew you’d come;” then, as a tearless sob shook her from head to foot, he added steadily, though each breath cost a pang, “‘Yes, dear, I must go first, but it won’t be hard with you to help me do it bravely.” In that supremely bitter moment there returned to Christie’s memory certain words of the marriage service that had seemed so beautiful when she took part in it: “For better for worse, till death us do part.” She had known the better, so short, so sweet! This was the worse, and till death came she must keep faithfully the promise made with such a happy heart. The thought brought with it unexpected strength, and gave her courage to crush down her grief, seal up her tears, and show a brave and tender face as she took that feeble hand in hers ready to help her husband die.