, and fuller life, not rest, is the
thing desired.

But there were times when his fears seemed lulled and tranquillised,
and when, with the strange hopefulness that was a feature of his
disease, he would even delude himself with the idea that the doctors
were wrong, and that he would surely get better.

These intervals of comparative brightness would come to him when the
sun shone, or his nights had been less suffering, or when Elizabeth was
with him. Her presence so rested and stimulated him that it was
impossible for him always to realise the truth. "I can think of nothing
but you," he would say to her--"I can think of nothing but you."

The sitting-room at the White Cottage looked snug and cosy that
morning; the fire burned cheerily, and David Carlyon lay on his
luxurious couch in the sunshine in a perfect nest of pillows, carefully
screened from draughts, and with a small table beside him, with flowers
and fruit and books--all carefully and tastefully arranged by
Elizabeth's own hands, on her way to church, while the invalid was
still in his bedroom.

It was a good day with David, and the old cheery smile was on his lips
as Elizabeth entered; but as she knelt beside him to give him her usual
greeting, the ravages of the fatal disease were fearfully perceptible
in the strong light.

The hollowed temples and sharply-defined features, the tightened skin,
the hectic flush, the emaciation and shortness of breathing, and the
constant cough, all told their sad tale of rapid decline and decay. Too
late--she knew it well--for any human skill to arrest those symptoms;
no earthly care and love could preserve that cherished life much longer!

"You are late, dearest," he said, holding her hand; "I saw the
church-goers pass a quarter of an hour ago. I expect you and my father
were gossiping as usual. But all the same I know my good Fairy has been
at work," with a glance at his flowers. "You must not spoil me like
this, my darling," and he raised her hand to his lips.

"You know I love to do it," returned Elizabeth gently. And then she
brought a low chair to his side, and placed herself where he could see
her. He would lie for hours contentedly watching her as she worked or
read to him. Sometimes the thin hand would touch a fold of her dress
caressingly, as though even that were sacred to him, and not a change
of the speaking face or an intonation of her voice would be lost on him.

Perhaps no two men were more dissimilar