he was quieter.

"Jungle fever, my dear fellow, jungle fever; caught in that beastly
tiger-hunt. Oh! I wish I had never taken her. I wish we had never gone.
Why wasn't I firm? Damn it all, sir, why wasn't I firm, eh?" In his
anger at himself something of the former jerky energy of the man showed
itself. Then it faded away into the jaded sorrowful look that was on his
face when I came in. He sat down with his elbows on his knees and his
hands in his scanty gray hair, his suspenders hanging down at his
sides--the picture of misery. I tried to console him, but I confess I
felt very much like breaking down myself. I did not see what I could do,
except break the bad news to Isaacs.

"Mr. Griggs," he said at last, "she has been asking for you all the
time, and the doctor thought if you came she had best see you, as it
might quiet her. Understand?" I understood better than he thought.

People who are dangerously ill have no morning and no evening. Their
hours are eternally the same, save for the alternation of suffering and
rest. The nurse and the doctor are their sun and moon, relieving each
other in the watches of day and night. As they are worse--as they draw
nearer to eternity, they are less and less governed by ideas of time. A
dying person will receive a visit at midnight or at mid-day with no
thought but to see the face of friend--or foe--once more. So I was not
surprised to find that Miss Westonhaugh would see me; in an interval of
the fever she had been moved to a chair in her room, and her brother was
with her. I might go in--indeed she sent a very urgent message imploring
that I would go. I went.

The morning sun was beating brightly on the shutters, and the room
looked cheerful as I entered. John Westonhaugh, paler than death, came
quickly to the door and grasped my hand.

On a long cane-chair by the window, carefully covered from the possible
danger of any insidious draught, with a mass of soft white wraps and
shawls, lay Katharine Westonhaugh--the transparant phantasm of her
brilliant self. The rich masses of pale hair were luxuriously nestled
around her shoulders and the blazing eyes flamed, lambently, under the
black brows--but that was all. Colour, beside the gold hair and the
black eyes, there was hardly any. The strong clean-cut outline of the
features was there, but absolutely startling in emaciation, so that
there seemed to be no flesh at all; the pale lips scarcely closed over
the straight white teet