The apartment was so dimly lighted that Mr. Carlyle took little notice
of his attendants, but one afternoon when the nurse had gone to
procure some refreshments, the sick man turned on his pillow, and
looked earnestly at the woman who was engaged in writing at a table
near the bed.

"Mrs. Smith."

Mrs. Carlyle rose and approached him.

"Are you Mrs. Smith,--my landlady?"

"No, sir. I am merely your nurse."

"My nurse? What is the matter with me?"

"Small-pox,--but the danger is now over."

"Small-pox! Where did I catch it? Am I still in Elm Street?"

"No, sir; you are in the hospital."

Shading his inflamed eyes with his hand, he mused for some moments,
and she saw a perplexed and sorrowful expression cross his features.

"Is there any danger of my dying?"

"That danger is past."

"What is your name?"

"Mrs. Gerome."

"Stand a little closer to me. I find I am almost blind. Mrs. Gerome?
Your voice is strangely like one that I have not heard for many
years,--and it carries me back,--back--to--" He sighed, and pressed
his fingers over his eyes.

After a few seconds, he said,--

"Do give me some water. I am as parched as Dives."

She lifted his head and put the glass to his lips,--and while he
drank, his eyes searched her face, and lingered admiringly on her
beautiful hand.

"Are you a regular nurse at this hospital?"

"I am engaged for your case."

"I see no pock-marks on your skin; it is as smooth as ivory. Shall I
escape as lightly?"

"It is impossible to tell. Here comes your dinner."

He caught her arm, and gazed earnestly at her.

"Is your hair really so white, or is it merely an illusion of my
inflamed eyes?"

"There is not a dark hair in my head; it is as white as snow."

While the nurse prepared the food and arranged it on the table, Mrs.
Carlyle hastily collected several articles scattered about the
apartment, and softly opened the door.

Standing there a moment, she looked back at the figure comfortably
elevated on pillows, and a long sigh of relief crossed her lips.

"Thank God! I have done my duty, and now he needs me no longer. Next
time I see your face, Maurice Carlyle, I hope it will be at the last
bar, in the final judgment; and then may the Lord have mercy upon us
both."

The words were breathed inaudibly, and, closing the door gently, she
hurried down the steps and in the direction of a small room which Dr.
Clingman had converted into an office.

As she entered,