in
store. Selma herself felt the inclination neither to smile nor to weep.
She sat looking before her with her hands clasped, resenting the
powerlessness of the few remedies used, and impatient of the inactivity
and relentless silence. Why did not the doctor adopt more stringent
measures? Surely there was something to be done to enable Wilbur to
combat the disease. Dr. Page had the reputation of being a skilful
physician, and, presumably, was doing his best; but was it not possible,
was it not sensible, to suppose there was a different and better way of
treating pneumonia--a way which was as superior to the conventional and
stereotyped method as the true American point of view was superior in
other matters?

It came over her as a conviction that if she were elsewhere--in Benham,
for instance--her husband could be readily and brilliantly cured. This
impassive mode of treatment seemed to her of one piece with the entire
Littleton surroundings, the culmination of which was Pauline smiling in
the face of death. She yearned to do something active and decided. Yet,
how helpless she was! This arbitrary doctor was following his own
dictates without a word to anyone, and without suspecting the existence
of wiser expedients.

In a moment of rebellion she rose, and swiftly approaching Wilbur's bed,
exclaimed, fervently: "Is there not something we can do for you,
darling? Something you feel will do you good?"

The sufferer faintly smiled and feebly shook his head, and at the same
moment she was drawn away by a firm hand, and Dr. Page whispered: "He is
very weak. Entire rest is his only chance. The least exertion is a drain
on his vitality."

"Surely there must be some medicine--some powerful application which
will help his breathing," she retorted, and she detected again the
semblance of laughter in the doctor's eyes.

"Everything which modern science can do is being done, Mrs. Littleton."

What was there but to resume her seat and helpless vigil? Modern
science? The word grated on her ears. It savored to her of narrow
medical tyranny, and distrust of aspiring individuality. Wilbur was
dying, and all modern science saw fit to do was to give him brandy and
wait. And she, his wife--the one who loved him best in the world, was
powerless to intervene. Nay, she had intervened, and modern science had
mocked her.

Selma's eyes, like the glint of two swords, bent themselves on her
husband's bed. A righteous anger reinforced her g