“I am better now. Let us go in.” “Wiser not,” said Clementina, a thousand miles from suspecting the psychological phenomenon that had occurred. Quixtus slightly raised a protesting hand. “I assure you there is no reason why I should not go in,” he said in a shaky voice. “All right,” said Clementina. “But you can’t go tumbling all over the place.” Once more she took his arm in her strong grip, and, leaving Poynter outside, they entered the death-chamber together. The windows were flung wide, but the outside shutters were closed, darkening the room and cooling it from the baking sun. A man in a frock coat and narrow black tie—the doctor—was aiding his assistant in the repacking of the oxygen apparatus. On the bed, gaunt, hollow-cheeked, and pinched, lay all that was left of Hammersley. Only his blonde hair and beard, with scarcely a touch of grey, remained of that which was familiar. The laughing eyes which had charmed men and women were hidden for ever beneath the lids. Clementina’s hand crept half-mechanically downwards and clasped that of Quixtus, which returned the pressure. So hand in hand they stood, in silence, by the death-bed. At last Clementina whispered: “Whatever may have been the misunderstanding between you, all is over now. May his sins be forgiven him.” “Amen,” said Quixtus. Tears rolled down Clementina’s cheeks and fell on her bodice. The dead man had belonged to her youth—the dreary youth that had taken itself for grim, grey eld. He had brought into it a little laughter, a little buoyancy, much strength, much comfort; all, so simply, so kindly. At first, in her fierce mood of revolt, she had rebuffed him and scorned his friendship. But he was one of the gifted ones who could divine a woman’s needs and minister to them; so he smiled at her rejection of his offerings, knowing that she craved them, and presented them again and again until at last, worn out with longing, she clutched at them frantically and hugged them to her bosom. A generous gentleman, a loyal friend, a very help in time of trouble, he lay there dead before her in the prime of his manhood. She let the tears fall unchecked, until they blinded her. A dry, queer voice broke a long silence, whispering in her ear: “I told you to give him my love, didn’t I?” She nodded and squeezed Quixtus’s hand. The doctor stood by waiting till their scrutiny of the dead should be over. Clementina was the first to turn to him and to ask for information as to the death. In a few words the doctor told her. When she entered the room he had been dead five minutes. “Who, Madame, you or this gentleman, is responsible for what remains to be done?” “I am. Don’t you think so, Ephraim?” Quixtus bowed his head. “I sent him my love,” he murmured. “And now,” said the Sister of Charity, “we must make the _toilette du mort_. Will you have the kindness to retire?” She smiled sadly and opened the door.