s he?" said Cally, her voice so little and calm.

The clergyman told her. And then all three stood looking down the
corridor to the door at the end of it: a shut door marked in white
letters: DR. VIVIAN.... But nothing could hurt her now.

"We thought that was right," said Mr. Dayne.... "Will you go in for a
moment?"

Briefly the girl's veiled eyes met his. He was aware that a little
tremor went through her; perhaps he then understood a little further.
And he thought he had never seen anybody so beautiful and white.

He added in his comforting way: "There's no one at all with him except
the little girl here, Corinne, that he was kind to...."

Surely there was never a loneliness like this loneliness.

"I will go, if I may," said Cally.

Chas was eyeing her, unbelievably grave, turning his hat between his
hands. And then she remembered Hen, left alone, who would not be
comforted.

She whispered: "Don't wait for me.... I'll come in a minute."

The young man hesitated; they spoke a moment; it was so arranged. Chas
was tipping away from her down the well of the stairs.

And she and the clergyman were walking up the corridor, his hand at her
elbow, to the door with the white letters on it.

As Mr. Dayne's hand touched the knob, she spoke again, very low.

"Is he.... Is he--much ...?"

"No," said Mr. Dayne, "the injuries were internal. There's hardly a
mark...."

So, opening the door softly, he left her.

And she was within, the door a step or two behind her, in front a long
space, drawn blinds, and the indistinguishable twilight. Somewhere
before her was the mortal man who had pledged her one day that he would
prove his friendship with his life.

And how came she here; by what right?

She had perceived remotely that she was not alone. Out of the dim great
stretches there emerged advancing a little figure, black-clad; advancing
silent, with lowered head. Drawing near, she did not look up, did not
speak: she was merely fading from the room.

The figure was vaguely apprehended, as one upon another planet. But
Cally, stirring slightly as she slipped past, made a movement with her
hand and said, just audibly:

"Don't go."

The girl must have paused. There came a tiny voice:

"Yes, ma'am. I'll ... just step out." And then, yet fainter: "I was
wishin' you'd come, ma'am."

It was the stillness of the world's last Sabbath. Gathering dusk was
here, and mortal fear. Her limbs ran to marble. There came again t