nst hope that he would
ever be well, and on his legs, and walking. Out of his own experience,
Opdyke knew that it is uncertainty which kills. Had he any right to go
on in silence, and not end the suspense once and for all? Of course, it
was the place of the surgeons to utter the decree of condemnation.
However, as long as they were not sufficiently astute to find out the
truth of the prospect, then, in all honour, was it not up to him?

There was no longer any hope of his recovery; that he knew of a surety,
knew as, every now and then, one does know things unprovable. He had
taken the knowledge pluckily, albeit it had told on him more than he
would have been willing to confess. It would have told on him still
more, though, had it not been for his week with Whittenden. All that
week, he had clung to Whittenden, as the drowning man clings to the
life raft. In the end, Whittenden had dragged him to the shore. And now
it was his own turn to do as much for his parents, and for Olive. Yes,
for Olive. Poor Olive! Yes, she was bound to take it hard.

So lost in thought of Olive was he that he started violently, when he
heard coming up the stairway to him the unmistakable rustle of feminine
skirts. He forgot the tree tops instantly, forgot his questionings.
Olive was coming back again. Doubtless, after her frequent custom, she
was returning to tell him something that she had forgotten. He turned
his head expectantly. Olive would have been welcome, a dozen times a
day; she was the one person in the world who never antagonized him,
never bored him, never tired him with irrelevant chatter. Now, without
in the least realizing the fact, he was shaping his lips into a smile
of eager welcome. Only an instant later, the smile had vanished, and
there had come into his brave brown eyes a look astonishingly like
consternation.

Not Olive, but Katharine Brenton, stood upon his threshold; and, as
Opdyke was too well aware, for the time being that threshold was
totally unguarded.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

With a rustle born of plenteous starch, a quiver of nodding roses on
her hat and an ultra-evident aroma of violet preceding her coming,
Katharine swept across the floor and halted beside Opdyke's couch. Even
in the first instant of keen resentment at her appearing, Opdyke was
conscious of no small surprise at beholding her so well dressed. In his
crass ignorance, he had yet to learn that, in the minds of the elect,
good clothes are