me that?"

"No; I came to ask a single question. How is Mr. Galbraith?"

"He is a very sick man."

Another pause, for which the questioner was responsible.

"You mean that there is a chance that he may not recover?"

"More than a chance, I'm afraid. The first thing Doctor Bertie did
yesterday evening was to wire St. Paul for two trained nurses; and
to-day he telegraphed Chicago for Doctor Holworthy, who charges
twenty-five dollars a minute for mere office consultations."

"Humph!" said Griswold, "money needn't cut any figure." And then, after
a moment of silence: "I did my best; you know I did my best?"

Her answer puzzled him a little.

"I could almost find it in my heart to hate you if you hadn't."

"But you know I did."

"Yes; I know you did."

Silence again, broken only by the whispering of the summer night breeze
rustling the leaves of the lawn oaks and the lapping of tiny waves on
the lake beach. At the end of it, Griswold got up and groped for his
hat.

"I'm going home," he said. "It has been a pretty strenuous day, and
there is another one coming. But before I go I want you to promise me
one thing. Will you let me know immediately, by 'phone or messenger, if
Mr. Galbraith takes a turn for the better?"

"Certainly," she said; and she let him say good-night and get as far as
the steps before she called him back.

"There was another thing," she began, with the sober gravity that he
could never be sure was not one of her many poses, and not the least
alluring one. "Do you believe in God, Kenneth?"

The query took him altogether by surprise, but he made shift to answer
it with becoming seriousness.

"I suppose I do. Why?"

"It is a time to pray to Him," she said softly; "to pray very earnestly
that Mr. Galbraith's life may be spared."

He could not let that stand.

"Why should I concern myself, specially?" he asked; adding: "Of course,
I'm sorry, and all that, but----"

"Never mind," she interposed, and she left her chair to walk beside him
to the steps. "I've had a hard day, too, Kenneth, boy, and I--I guess it
has got on my nerves. But, all the same, you ought to do it, you know."

He stopped and looked down into the eyes whose depths he could never
wholly fathom.

"Why don't you do it?" he demanded.

"I? oh, God doesn't know me; and, besides, I thought--oh, well, it
doesn't matter what I thought. Good-night."

And before he could return the leave-taking word, she was gone.