became greyer and sharper. "Sally--Nancy--Nancy," he whispered, and his
fingers clutched vaguely at the quilt.

"He must have brandy or he will die. The system is pumped out. He must
be revived," said the doctor. He reached again for the glass of spirits.

Jim understood now. He was on the borderland between life and death; his
feet were at the brink. "No--not--brandy, no!" he moaned. "Sally-Sally,
kiss me," he said faintly, from the middle world in which he was.

"Quick, the broth!" said Sewell to the factor, who had been preparing
it. "Quick, while there's a chance." He stooped and called into Jim's
ear: "For the love of God, wake up, sir. They're coming--they're both
coming--Nancy's coming. They'll soon be here." What matter that he lied,
a life was at stake.

Jim's eyes opened again. The doctor was standing with the brandy in
his hand. Half madly Jim reached out. "I must live until they come,"
he cried; "the brandy--give it me! Give it--ah, no, no, I must not!" he
added, gasping, his lips trembling, his hands shaking.

Sewell held the broth to his lips. He drank a little, yet his face
became greyer and greyer; a bluish tinge spread about his mouth.

"Have you nothing else, sir?" asked Sewell in despair. The doctor put
down the brandy, went quickly to his medicine-case, dropped into a glass
some liquid from a phial, came over again, and poured a little between
the lips; then a little more, as Jim's eyes opened again; and at last
every drop in the glass trickled down the sinewy throat.

Presently as they watched him the doctor said: "It will not do. He must
have brandy. It has life-food in it."

Jim understood the words. He knew that if he drank the brandy the
chances against his future were terrible. He had made his vow, and he
must keep it. Yet the thirst was on him; his enemy had him by the throat
again, was dragging him down. Though his body was so cold, his throat
was on fire. But in the extremity of his strength his mind fought
on--fought on, growing weaker every moment. He was having his last
fight. They watched him with an aching anxiety, and there was anger in
the doctor's face. He had no patience with these forces arrayed against
him.

At last the doctor whispered to Sewell: "It's no use; he must have the
brandy, or he can't live an hour."

Sewell weakened; the tears fell down his rough, hard cheeks. "It'll ruin
him-it's ruin or death."

"Trust a little more in God, and in the man's strength. Let