or the poor man's soul.

Then the doctor's carriage-wheels were heard, and he came up-stairs,
ushered by Irene, who stood in the doorway, listening and looking
with a sort of alien expression, as if she herself were immortal, and
sneered and wondered at it all.

Ida greeted the doctor in her usual manner. "Good-evening, doctor,"
she said, smiling. "I am sorry to have disturbed you at this hour,
but Mr. Edgham has an acute attack of indigestion and I could not
rouse him, and I thought it hardly wise to wait until morning."

The doctor, who was an old man, unshaven and grim-faced, nodded and
went up to the bed. He did not open his medicine-case after he had
looked at Harry.

"I suppose you can give him something, doctor?" Ida said.

"There is nothing that mortal man can do, madam," said the doctor,
surlily. He disliked Ida Edgham, and yet he felt apologetic towards
her that he could do nothing. He in reality felt testily apologetic
towards all mankind that he could not avert death at last.

Ida's brilliant color faded then; she ceased to smile. "I think I
should have been told," she said, with a sort of hard indignation.

The doctor said nothing. He stood holding Harry's hand, his fingers
on the pulse.

"You surely do not mean me to understand that my husband is dying?"
said Ida.

"He cannot last more than a few hours, madam," replied the doctor,
with pitilessness, yet still with the humility of one who has failed
in a task.

"I think we had better have another doctor at once," said Ida.
"Irene, go down street to the telegraph operator and tell him to send
a message for Dr. Lameth."

"He has been consulted, and also Dr. Green and Dr. Anderson, not four
weeks ago, and we all agree," said the doctor, with a certain
defiance.

"Go, Irene," said Ida.

Irene went out of the room, but neither she nor the cook left the
house.

"The madam said to send a telegram," Irene told the cook, "but the
doctor said it was no use, and I ain't goin' to stir out a step again
to-night. I'm afraid."

The cook, who was weeping beside the kitchen table, hardly seemed to
hear. She wept profusely and muttered surreptitiously prayers on her
rosary for poor Harry's soul, which passed as day dawned.

Chapter XXVII

Maria had always attended church, and would have said, had she been
asked, that she believed in religion, that she believed in God; but
she had from the first, when she had thought of such matters at all,
a cu