"But you did not. Yes, I understand. Go to sleep again, Roscoe."

Later on the fever came, and he moaned and moved his head about his
pillow. He could not move his body--it was too much injured.

There was a source of fear in Kilby. Would he recklessly announce what
he had done, and the cause of it? After thinking it over and over, I
concluded that he would not disclose his crimes. My conclusions were
right, as after events showed.

As for Roscoe, I feared that if he lived he must go through life maimed.
He had a private income; therefore if he determined to work no more in
the ministry, he would, at least, have the comforts of life.

Ruth Devlin came. I went to Roscoe and told him that she wished to
see him. He smiled sorrowfully and said: "To what end, Marmion? I am a
drifting wreck. It will only shock her." I think he thought she would
not love him now if he lived--a crippled man.

"But is this noble? Is it just to her?" said I.

After a long time he answered: "You are right again, quite right. I am
selfish. When one is shaking between life and death, one thinks most of
one's self."

"She will help to bring you back from those places, Roscoe."

"If I am delirious ever, do not let her come, will you, Marmion? Promise
me that." I promised.

I went to her. She was very calm and womanly. She entered the room, went
quietly to his bedside, and, sitting down, took his hand. Her smile was
pitiful and anxious, but her words were brave.

"My dearest," she said, "I am so sorry. But you will soon be well, so we
must be as patient and cheerful as we can."

His eyes answered, but he did not speak. She leaned over and kissed his
cheek. Then he said: "I hope I may get well."

"This was the shadow over you," she ventured. "This was your
presentiment of trouble--this accident."

"Yes, this was the shadow."

Some sharp thought seemed to move her, for her eyes grew suddenly hard,
and she stooped and whispered: "Was SHE there--when--it happened, Galt?"

He shrank from the question, but he said immediately: "No, she was not
there."

"I am glad," she added, "that it was only an accident."

Her eyes grew clear of their momentary hardness. There is nothing in
life like the anger of one woman against another concerning a man.

Justine Caron came to the house, pale and anxious, to inquire. Mrs.
Falchion, she said, was not going away until she knew how Mr. Roscoe's
illness would turn.

"Miss Caron," I said to her, "do yo