mation.

"Why, she'll be terribly sorry for you, but she won't _care_,"
concluded Harber. "I mean, she'll be waiting for you, and glad to
have you coming home, so glad that...."

"Ah ... yes. That's what ... I haven't mentioned the fever in
writing to her, you see. It will be a shock."

Harber, looking at him, thought that it would, indeed.

"I had a letter from her just before we sailed," went on the other,
more cheerfully. "I'd like awfully, some time, to have you meet her.
She's a wonderful girl--wonderful. She's clever. She's much cleverer
than I am, really ... about most things. When we get to Victoria,
you must let me give you my address."

"Thanks," said Harber. "I'll be glad to have it."

That was the last Harber saw of him for five days. The weather
had turned rough, and he supposed the poor fellow was seasick,
and thought of him sympathetically, but let it rest there. Then,
one evening after dinner, the steward came for him and said that
Mr. Clay Barton wanted to see him. Harber followed to Barton's stateroom,
which the sick man was occupying alone. In the passageway near the
door, he met the ship's doctor.

"Mr. Harber?" said the doctor. "Your friend in there--I'm sorry to
say--is----"

"I suspected as much," said Harber. "He knows it himself, I think."

"Does he?" said the doctor, obviously relieved. "Well, I hope that
he'll live till we get him ashore. There's just a chance, of course,
though his fever is very high now. He's quite lucid just now, and
has been insisting upon seeing you. Later he mayn't be conscious.
So----"

Harber nodded. "I'll go in."

Barton lay in his berth, still, terribly thin, and there were two
pink patches of fever burning upon his cheek-bones. He opened his
eyes with an infinite weariness as Harber entered the room, and
achieved a smile.

"Hard luck, old fellow," said Harber, crossing to him. "'Sall
_up_!" said Barton, grinning gamely. "I'm through. Asked 'em to
send you in. Do something for me, Harber--tha's right, ain't
it--Harber's your name?"

"Yes. What is it, Barton?"

Barton closed his eyes, then opened them again.

"Doggone memory--playin' tricks," he apologized faintly. "This,
Harber. Black-leather case inside leather grip there--by the wall.
Money in it--and letters. Everything goes--to the girl. Nobody else.
I know you're straight. Take 'em to her?"

"Yes," said Harber.

"Good," said Barton. "All right, then! Been expecting this. All ready
for i