ness closed
in upon the dizzy little traveller, sailing on and on in the black,
burning night, further and further away from the world and from life.

How could she guess how many days and nights she sailed thus? The ship
stopped, that was all she knew; but still it was dark, so dark; and then
she was in a strange land where the air was fire, and everything one
touched was raging with heat, and her hands, why had they bandaged her
hands, so that she could not move them?

"I can't see," said Druse, in a faint, puzzled whisper. "Is it night?"

And Miss De Courcy, bending over the bed, haggard and wan, and years
older in the ghostly gray dawn, said soothingly:

"Yes, Druse, it's night," for she knew Druse would never see the light
again.

"Miss De Courcy!"

"Yes, Druse."

"I expect I've kept your brother out all this time. I hope he won't be
mad."

"No, no, Druse; be quiet and sleep."

"I can't sleep. I wish it would be morning. I want to see you, Miss De
Courcy. Well, never mind. Somehow, I guess I ain't goin' to get better.
If what I've had--ain't catchin'--I suppose you wouldn't want to--to
kiss me, would you?"

Without hesitation, the outcast bent her face, purified and celestial
with love and sacrifice; bent it over the dreadful Thing, loathsome and
decaying, beyond the semblance of human form or feature, on the
bed,--bent and kissed, as a mother would have kissed.

The gray dawn crept yet further into the room, the streets were growing
noisier, the Elevated trains rushed by the corner, the milkmen's carts
rumbled along the Avenue, the sparrows twittered loudly on the
neighboring roofs. And yet it seemed so solemnly silent in the room.
"Well, now!" said Druse, with pleased surprise, "I didn't expect you
would. What a long time it is gettin' light this mornin'. To think of
you, a-takin' care of _me_, like this! An' I ain't never done a thing
for you excep' the headaches and sweepin', an' even that was nicer for
me than for you. I knew you was awful good, but I never knew you was
religious before, Miss De Courcy. Nobody but folks that has religion
does such things, they say. I wish I could remember my prayers. Ain't it
strange, I've forgot them all? Couldn't you say one? Just a little one?"

And Miss De Courcy, her face buried in her hands, said, "Lord, have
mercy upon us," and said no more.

"Thank you," said Druse, more feebly, and quite satisfied. "We won't
forget each other, an' you'll promise to co