vividly now, at time of sunrise. Though thus early, each man sat idly
smoking, an open book reversed on the knee.

De Young first broke the silence.

"We must do something, or else decide to do nothing about Clark's
mail." He shifted in his seat, looking away from the open door.

"I don't know--whether--it would be kinder to tell them or not."

A coughing fit shook Morris, and answering, a twitch as of pain
tightened the corners of his companion's eyes. Minutes passed, and
Morris sat limply in his chair, before he answered,

"I thought at first we'd better write; now it seems different. Let's
wait until we go back."

Neither of the men looked at the other. They seldom did now; it
was useless pain. Filled with the incomparable optimism of the
consumptive, neither man realized his own condition, but marked the
days of his friend. Morris, unbelieving, spoke of his friend's
return; yet, growing weaker each day himself, spoke in all hope and
conviction of his future work, recording each day his mode of
successful treatment, despite interruptions of coughing which left
him breathless and trembling for minutes. De Young saw, and in
pity marvelled; yet, seeing, and as a physician knowing, he not for a
moment applied the gauge to himself.

Nature, in sportive mood, commands the Angel of Death, who with
matchless legerdemain, keeps the mirror of illusion, unsuspected,
before the consumptive's eyes; and, seeing, in derision the satirist
smiles.

Unavoidably acting parts, the two friends found a barrier of
artificiality separating them, making each happier when alone. Thus
day after day, monotonous, unchanging, went by. Not another person
entered their door. From the little town a man at periods brought
provisions and their mail, but the house was acquiring an uncanny
reputation. They were not understood, and such are ever foreign. With
the passage of time and the coming of the mound in the dooryard, the
feeling had developed into positive fear, and travellers avoided the
place as though warned by a scarlet placard.

Morris grew weaker daily. At last the disillusionment that precedes
death came to him. The artificial slipped from both men and a
nearness like that of brothers, joined them. They spoke not of the
future but of the past. Years slipped aside and left them back in the
midst of active, brain-satisfying practice. Over again they performed
operations, where life and death were separated but by a hair's width.
A