great
"why," should come uppermost in his mind demanding an answer.

Once before, at the time when other men read from their lives, he
caught glimpses of something beyond. Now again the mood returned, and
he knew why he was as he was; that with him love was, and had been,
stronger than Science and all else beside. He knew that whatever he
might have done, the entering into his life of The Woman, and the
knowledge that followed her coming, had inspired the supreme motive
that thenceforth drove him forward. With this realization came a new
life, a happier and a sadder life, in which all things underwent
readjustment.

Regret came as sadness, regret that he had not told this woman
all; that in his blind confidence he had not written, but had
waited--waited for this. He would wait no longer. He would tell
her now. A thousand new thoughts came to his mind; a thousand new
feelings surged over him as a flood, and he poured them out on paper.
The man himself, not the physician, was unfolded for the first time in
his life, and the writing of that letter which told all, his life,
his love, that ended with a good-bye which was forever, was the
sweetest labor of his life. He sealed the letter and sat for hours
looking at it, dreaming.

It was summer and the nights were short, so that with the writing and
the dreams, morning had come. He could scarce wait that day for the
carrier; time to him had become suddenly a thing most precious; and
when at last the man appeared. De Young twice exacted the promise
that the letter should be mailed special delivery.

The reaction was on and all the world was dark. Fool that he was, two
years had passed since he had heard from her. She also was a
consumptive; might not--?

The very thought was torture; perspiration started at every pore, and
with the little strength that was left he paced up and down the room
like a caged animal. A fit of coughing, such as he had never known
before, seized him, and he dropped full length upon the bed.

The limit was reached; he slept.

As he had worked one night before to forget, so he spent the following
days. It was the end, and he knew it; but he no longer cared. His
future was centred on one event--the coming of a letter. Beyond that
all was shadow, and he cared not to explore. He worked all that Nature
would allow, carrying to completion his observations, admitting his
mistake with a candor which now caused no personal pain. He spent much
time at