re all right
she may not have time to see you. At present she's outside your door.
That's her knock. Guess she's got the milk."

With breath held, Van Landing listened. Very low were the words
spoken, then the door was closed again. His heart was calling to her.
The long and empty years in which he had hoped against hope, and yet
could make no effort to find her, faded as mist fades before the light
that dawns and glows; and to say no word when she was near, to hold
hands still that longed to outstretch, to make no sign when he would
kneel for pardon at her feet--it was not to be endured. He would not
wait; the doctor must let her in!

But it was not the doctor who was at his bed. It was a short, plump
woman of more than middle age, with twinkling gray eyes and firm, kind
hands and a cheery voice.

"It's the milk, my son," she said, and the steaming glass was held to
his lips. "When you've had it you will sleep like a baby. It's warm,
are you--and the feet good and hot? Let me feel that water-bag? Bless
my soul if it's even lukewarm, and your feet still shivery! It's no
wonder, for they were ice itself when they brought you in."

With dexterous fingers the hot-water bag was withdrawn from the foot
of the bed and Mother McNeil was out of the room. Back again, she
slipped it close to his feet, tucked in the covering, patted the
pillows, and, lowering the light, turned to leave the room. At the
door she stopped.

"Is there anything you're needing, my son--anything I can do for you?"

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the ticking of a tiny
clock on the mantel, then Van Landing spoke.

"Yes." His voice was boyishly low. "Will you ask Miss Barbour if I may
see her to-morrow before she goes out? I _must_ see her."

"Of course I will. And you can tell her how it happened that you were
right near our door when you fell, and you didn't even know she was in
town. Very few of her up-town friends know. There wasn't time for both
up-town and down-town, and there were things she wanted to find out.
She tells me you are an old friend, and I'm glad you've come across
each other again. It pleases some folks to believe in chance, but I
get more comfort thinking God has His own way. Good night, Mr. Van
Landing. Good dreams--good dreams!"

The door was closed softly, and under the bedclothes Van Landing again
buried his face in the pillows, and his lips twitched. Chance--was it
chance or was it God? If only God would