will make the job easier next time. We
shall see.

Anyhow, this attack--bad as it was--has not been so bad as the one he
had at three this morning. Rosalind and Nurse Emilia invent a paroxysm
of diabolical severity, partly for the establishment of a pinnacle for
themselves to look down on Sally from, partly for her consolation. He
wasn't able to speak for ever so long after that, and this time he is
trying to say something.... "What is it, dear?"

"Couldn't we have a window open to let a little air in?"

Well!--we could have a window open. We could let a little air in--but
only a very little. And that very little would bring with it copious
percentages of moisture saturated with finely subdivided carbonaceous
matter, of carbon dioxide, and sulphur dioxide, and traces of hydric
chloride, who is an old friend of our youth, known to us then as
muriatic acid.

"It's such a thick fog, Major dear. As soon as it clears a little
we'll open the window. Won't we, Sally?"

"Is Sally there?... Come and touch my hand, kitten.... That's
right...." What is left of the Major can still enjoy the plump little
white hand that takes the old fingers that once could grasp the sword
that hangs on the wall. It will not be for very long now. A newspaper
paragraph will soon give a short record of all the battles that sword
left its scabbard to see, and will tell of its owner's service in his
later days as deputy Commissioner at Umritsur, and of the record of
long residence in India it established, exceeding that of his next
competitor by many years. Not a few old warriors that were in those
battles, and many that knew his later time, will follow him beyond it
very soon. But he is not gone yet, and his hand can just give back its
pressure to Sally's, as she sits by him, keeping her heart in and her
tears back. The actual collapse of vital forces has not come--will not
come for a few days. He can speak a little as she stoops to hear him.

"Young people like you ought to be in bed, chick, getting beauty-sleep.
You must go home, and make your mother go.... _You_ go. _I_ shall be
all right...."

"It isn't night, Major dear"--Sally makes a paltry attempt to
laugh--"it's three in the afternoon. It's the fog." But she cannot hear
what he says in answer to this, go close as she may. After a pause of
rest he tries again, with raised voice:

"Roper--Roper--Old Jack ... mustn't come ... asthma in the fog ...
somebody go to stop him." He is quite