en Roger
paused, saying with decision:

"You risk her life if you go in now, when she is in such a condition;
the shock might bring on another hemorrhage."

"I will wait," said Olive, beginning to feel the stern necessity of
rigid self-control. "But cannot you go in, and ask the doctor how she
is, and ask him how long before I can see her?"

"I will try, wait here;" and Olive waited, while he went to the door,
and tapped. She saw that he was refused admittance; but that in a few
moments the doctor came out, and talked with him, after which they
walked down to where she stood.

"Dr. Pierce, Olive; and I have told him a few of the sad facts of the
case," was Roger's hurried introduction and explanation.

"And can I see her?" asked Olive, with trembling eagerness.

"I think not, but I am sorry," was the kindly answer. "The hemorrhage
was not very severe, but she is perfectly prostrated with overwork and
excitement, so that I would dread the effect of any shock. Besides I
have given her an opiate, from which she may not wake for hours, if it
has the desired effect."

"But may I not see her when she gets to sleep?" pleaded Olive,
tremulously. "I will be very quiet indeed."

"Yes, you may; I will call you," answered the doctor, and then some of
the bystanders brought Olive a chair, and she dropped into it, and
leaning her head against the door casing, waited, hardly noticing that
through the hour that followed, Roger Congreve stood close by her side
and studied the pale, anxious face, while pondering the revelation made
to him that evening. He had almost decided that she had no heart, simply
because it had not responded to his; but had she not?

"You may come now," whispered an attendant, opening the door; and with
her heart bounding so that she could scarcely stand, Olive went in
slowly, and holding her breath as she drew near the bed whereon lay the
motionless figure. Oh, could it be Ernestine? She stood and looked, with
eyes blinded by hot tears, and once ventured to touch one of the thin
waxen-like hands lying on the coverlid. Did it seem possible?
Light-hearted, beautiful Ernestine Dering, and this white, shadowy,
motionless being, one and the same? The face, as seen in the glare of
lights, and under its gaudy trappings, was a picture of health, compared
to what it was now, lying on the small, hard pillow, with the golden
hair pushed straight back, and the face as pallid as marble, with sunken
eyes, and pinche