ets sink to a curious
roundness, a greyness gather about the mouth. There were times when
they looked at each other in the last surmise. Yet the feeble pulse
persisted--persisted.

"I believe now," said Sister Margaret, "that he may go on like this
until the morning. I am going to take half an hour's nap. Rouse me at
once if he wakes," and she took an attitude of casual repose, turning
the Prayer-book open on her knee for readier use, open at "Prayers for
the Dying."

The jackals had wailed themselves out, and there was a long, dark period
when nothing but the sudden cry of a night bird in the hospital garden
came between Hilda and the very vivid perception she had at that hour of
the value and significance of the earthly lot. She lifted her head
and listened to that, it seemed a comment. Suddenly, then, a harsh
quarrelling of dogs--Christian dogs--arose in the distance and died
away, and again there was night and silence. Night for hours. Time for
reflection, alone with death and the lamp, upon the year that had
been very valuable. "I would have married you," she whispered. "Yes,
I would." Later her lips moved again. "I would have taken the
consequence;" and again, "I would have paid any penalty." There he lay,
a burden that she would never bear, a burden that would be gone in the
morning. There were moments when she cried out on Fate for doing her
this kindness.

The long singing drone of a steamer's signal came across the city from
the river, once, twice, thrice; and presently the sparrows began their
twittering in the bushes near the verandah, an unexpected unanimous bird
talk that died as suddenly and as irrelevantly away. A conservancy cart
lumbered past creaking; the far shrill whistle of an awakening factory
cut the air from Howrah; the first solitary foot smote through the dawn
upon the pavement. The light showed grey beyond the scanty curtains. A
noise of something being moved reverberated in the hospital below, and
Arnold opened his eyes. They made him in a manner himself again, and he
fixed them upon Hilda as if they could never alter. She leaned nearer
him and made a sign of inquiry toward the sleeping Sister, with the
farewells, the commendations of poor mortality speeding itself forth,
lying upon her lap. Arnold comprehended, and she was amazed to see the
mask of his face charge itself with a faint smile as he shook his head.
He made a little movement; she saw what he wanted and took his hand in
hers.