him. What am I to do?"

Rose had her own opinion of the dilemma, and no great opinion of the
Doctor.

"Do nothin'," she said, and pondered on it. "Look at it sensible. You
may depend upon it 'e's found somethin' 'e's got to do. 'E's set 'is
'eart on finishin' it. Don't you cross 'im. I don't believe in crossin'
them when they're set."

"And if he dies, Rose? If he dies?"

"'E dies 'is way--not yours."

It was the wisdom of renunciation and repression; but Laura felt that it
was right.

Her hour struck and she went up to Owen. He was lying back now with his
eyes closed and his lips parted. Because of its peace his face was like
the face of the dead. But his lips were hot under hers and his cheek was
fire to her touch. She put her finger on his pulse and he opened his
eyes and smiled at her.

"It's finished," he said. "You can take it away now."

She gathered up the loose sheets and laid them in a drawer in his desk.
The poem once finished he was indifferent to its disposal. His eyes
followed her, they rested on her without noting her movements. They drew
her as she came towards him again.

"Forgive me," he said. "It was too strong for me."

"Never again," she murmured. "Promise me, never again till you're well."

"Never again." He smiled as he answered.

Dr. Brodrick, calling late that night, was informed by Laura of the
extent to which he had been disobeyed. He thundered at her and
threatened, a Brodrick beside himself with fury.

"Do you suppose," she said, "it isn't awful for me to have to stand by
and see it, and do nothing? What can I do?"

He looked down at her. The little thing had a will of her own; she was
indeed, for her size, preposterously over-charged with will. Never had
he seen a small creature so indomitably determined. He put it to her.
She had a will; why couldn't she use it?

"His will is stronger than mine," she said. "And his genius is stronger
than his will."

"You overrate the importance of it. What does it matter if he never
writes another line?"

It seemed to her that he charged him with futility, that he echoed--and
in this hour!--the voice of the world that tried to make futile
everything he did.

"It doesn't matter to you," she said. "You never understood his genius;
you never cared about it."

"Do you mean to tell me that you--_you_ care about it more than you care
about him? Upon my word, I don't know what you women are made of."

"What could I do?" she said. "I h