he
newel-post and the door. Sophy was coming down the stair opposite. She
looked like a somnambule in her long white dressing-gown, with eyes
fixed before her. He came out and stood facing her. She looked straight
at him, but her face was blank of recognition.

"Sophy!" he muttered--there was anguish in his hoarse voice: "Sophy!"

For all response, she leaned over the banister.

"_Dottore! Dottore!_" she called.

"_Vengo--vengo, signora!_" came at once the reply of Camenis. As soon as
he answered, she turned and ran fleetly up the stairs again. She had
not even glanced towards Chesney. Then Camenis went by, also very
quickly. Chesney wanted to ask what it was ... he could not speak.
Later, he waylaid the doctor coming back. Yes--the boy was conscious
again. He would live. The crisis was past.

Chesney hung so heavily on the door that it swung back a little with
him.

"Can I do anything for you, signore?" said Camenis, hesitating. "You
look ill yourself."

"No--thanks--the--shock----" Chesney mumbled. He retreated, closing the
door. Camenis stood a second looking at the closed door. Then he passed
on to his own room.

The next day he said to Sophy:

"Signora, now that the little one is out of danger, I feel that I must
speak to you about your husband."

He saw her grow rigid.

"Signora," he pursued very gently, "one forgives much to illness. Your
husband is an ill man, signora." He saw her eyes waver, but her nostrils
were still set.

"You have been kind enough to trust me with your confidence, signora,"
Camenis went on in his flat, gentle voice. "And so I feel it my duty to
speak quite plainly to you."

"Yes," said Sophy mechanically.

Camenis looked at her with that tender pity, which from the wise eyes of
a kindly priest or physician does not hurt. His look reminded Sophy of
Father Raphael of the Poor. She braced herself to meet what was coming.

"Then, signora," said Camenis, "I will remind you that your husband came
to me two weeks ago, to consult me about a severe attack of sciatica. He
asked for a palliative. I told him that I knew of none save
opium--morphia ... that I did not give it except in extreme cases. Now,
signora, from what you have told me--about the unfortunate habit that
your husband has only lately escaped from.... You will pardon my perfect
frankness, signora?"

"Yes.... Yes...."

"Then.... You must not be too shocked--too horrified. We, who have not
endured it, cannot imagin