ression might show itself in a lowering of physical
resistance. But the body kept up its obstinate struggle against death,
drawing strength from sources of vitality unsuspected in that frail
envelope. The surgeon's report the next day was more favourable, and
every day won from death pointed now to a faint chance of recovery.

Such at least was Wyant's view. Dr. Garford and the consulting surgeons
had not yet declared themselves; but the young doctor, strung to the
highest point of watchfulness, and constantly in attendance on the
patient, was tending toward a hopeful prognosis. The growing conviction
spurred him to fresh efforts; at Dr. Garford's request, he had
temporarily handed over his Clifton practice to a young New York doctor
in need of change, and having installed himself at Lynbrook he gave up
his days and nights to Mrs. Amherst's case.

"If any one can save her, Wyant will," Dr. Garford had declared to
Justine, when, on the tenth day after the accident, the surgeons held
their third consultation. Dr. Garford reserved his own judgment. He had
seen cases--they had all seen cases...but just at present the signs
might point either way.... Meanwhile Wyant's confidence was an
invaluable asset toward the patient's chances of recovery. Hopefulness
in the physician was almost as necessary as in the patient--contact with
such faith had been known to work miracles.

Justine listened in silence, wishing that she too could hope. But
whichever way the prognosis pointed, she felt only a dull despair. She
believed no more than Dr. Garford in the chance of recovery--that
conviction seemed to her a mirage of Wyant's imagination, of his boyish
ambition to achieve the impossible--and every hopeful symptom pointed,
in her mind, only to a longer period of useless suffering.

Her hours at Bessy's side deepened her revolt against the energy spent
in the fight with death. Since Bessy had learned that her husband was
returning she had never, by sign or word, reverted to the fact. Except
for a gleam of tenderness, now and then, when Cicely was brought to
her, she seemed to have sunk back into herself, as though her poor
little flicker of consciousness were wholly centred in the contemplation
of its pain. It was not that her mind was clouded--only that it was
immersed, absorbed, in that dread mystery of disproportionate anguish
which a capricious fate had laid on it.... And what if she recovered, as
they called it? If the flood-tide