"A letter for you, Nora," said Larry, coming just in from the post office.

"From Jane!" cried Nora, tearing open the letter. "Oh, glory," she continued. "They are coming. Let's see, written on the ninth, leaving to-morrow and arrive at Melville Station on the twelfth. Why, that's tomorrow."

"Who, Nora?" said Larry. "Jane?"

"Yes, Jane and her father. She says, 'We mean to stay two or three days, if you can have us, on our way to Banff.'"

"Hurrah! Good old Jane! What train did you say?" cried Larry.

"Sixteen-forty-five to-morrow at Melville Station."

"'We'll have one trunk and two boxes, so you will need some sort of rig, I am afraid. I hope this will not be too much trouble.'"

"Isn't that just like Jane?" said Larry. "I bet you she gives the size of the trunk, doesn't she, Nora?"

"A steamer trunk and pretty heavy, she says."

"Same old girl. Does she give you the colour?" inquired Larry. "Like an old maid, she is."

"Nonsense," said Nora, closing up her letter. "Oh, it's splendid. Let's see, it is eight years since we saw her."

"Just about fifteen months since I saw her," said Larry.

"And about four months for me," said Kathleen.

"But eight years for me," cried Nora, "and she has never missed writing me every week, except once when she had the mumps, and she made her father write that week. Now we shall have to take our old democrat to meet her, the awful old thing," said Nora in a tone of disgust.

"Jane won't mind if it is a hayrack," said Larry.

"No, but her father. He's such a swell. I hate meeting him with that old bone cart. But we can't help it. Oh, I am just nutty over her coming. I wonder what she's like?"

"Why, she's the same old Jane," said Larry. "That's one immense satisfaction about her. She is always the same, no matter when, how or where you meet her. There's never a change in Jane."

"I wonder if she has improved--got any prettier, I mean."

"Prettier! What the deuce are you talking about?" said Larry indignantly. "Prettier! Like a girl that is! You never think of looks when you see Jane. All you see is just Jane and her big blue eyes and her smile. Prettier! Who wants her prettier?"

"Oh, all right, Larry. Don't fuss. She is plain-looking, you know. But she is such a good sort. I must tell Mrs. Waring- Gaunt."

"Do," said Larry, "and be sure to ask her for her car."

Nora made a face at him, but ran to the 'phone and in an ecstatic jumble of words conveyed the tremendous news to the lady at the other end of the wire and to all the ears that might be open along the party line.

"Is that Mrs. Waring-Gaunt?--it's Nora speaking. I have the most glorious news for you. Jane is coming!--You don't know Jane? My friend, you know, in Winnipeg. You must have often heard me speak of her.--What?--Brown.--No, Brown, B-r-o-w-n. And she's coming to- morrow.--No, her father is with her.--Yes, Dr. Brown of Winnipeg.-- Oh, yes. Isn't it splendid?--Three days only, far too short. And we meet her to-morrow.--I beg your pardon?--Sixteen-forty-five, she says, and she is always right. Oh, a change in the time table is there?--Yes, I will hold on.--Sixteen-forty-five, I might have known.--What do you say?--Oh, could you? Oh, dear Mrs. Waring- Gaunt, how perfectly splendid of you! But are you sure you can?-- Oh, you are just lovely.--Yes, she has one trunk, but that can come in the democrat. Oh, that is perfectly lovely! Thank you so much. Good-bye.--What? Yes, oh, yes, certainly I must go.--Will there be room for him? I am sure he will love to go. That will make five, you know, and they have two bags. Oh, lovely; you are awfully good.--We shall need to start about fifteen o'clock. Good-bye. Oh, how is Mr. Romayne?--Oh, I am so sorry, it is too bad. But, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, you know Dr. Brown is a splendid doctor, the best in Winnipeg, one of the best in Canada. He will tell you exactly what to do.--I beg your pardon?--Yes, she's here. Kathleen, you are wanted. Hurry up, don't keep her waiting. Oh, isn't she a dear?"

"What does she want of me?" said Kathleen, a flush coming to her cheek.

"Come and see," said Nora, covering the transmitter with her hand, "and don't keep her waiting. What is the matter with you?"

Reluctantly Kathleen placed the receiver to her ear. "Yes, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, it is Kathleen speaking.--Yes, thank you, quite well.--Oh, I have been quite all right, a little shaken perhaps.-- Yes, isn't it splendid? Nora is quite wild, you know. Jane is her dearest friend and she has not seen her since we were children, but they have kept up a most active correspondence. Of course, I saw a great deal of her last year. She is a splendid girl and they were so kind; their house was like a home to me. I am sure it is very kind of you to offer to meet them.--I beg your pardon?--Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. We thought he was doing so well. What brought that on?--Blood-poisoning!--Oh, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, you don't say so? How terrible! Isn't it good that Dr. Brown is coming? He will know exactly what is wrong.--Oh, I am so sorry to hear that. Sleeplessness is so trying.--Yes--Yes--Oh, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, I am afraid I couldn't do that." Kathleen's face had flushed bright crimson. "But I am sure Mother would be so glad to go, and she is a perfectly wonderful nurse. She knows just what to do.--Oh, I am afraid not. Wait, please, a moment."

"What does she want?" asked Nora.

Kathleen covered the transmitter with her hand. "She wants me to go and sit with Mr. Romayne while she drives you to the station. I cannot, I cannot do that. Where is Mother? Oh, Mother, I cannot go to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt's. I really cannot."

"What nonsense, Kathleen!" cried Nora impatiently. "Why can't you go, pray? Let me speak to her." She took the receiver from her sister's hand. "Yes, Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, it is Nora.--I beg your pardon?--Oh, yes, certainly, one of us will be glad to go.--No, no, certainly not. I would not have Mr. Waring-Gaunt leave his work for the world.--I know, I know, awfully slow for him. We had not heard of the change. It is too bad.--Yes, surely one of us will be glad to come. We will fix it up some way. Good-bye."

Nora hung up the receiver and turned fiercely upon her sister. "Now, what nonsense is this," she said, "and she being so nice about the car, and that poor man suffering there, and we never even heard that he was worse? He was doing so splendidly, getting about all right. Blood-poisoning is so awful. Why, you remember the Mills boy? He almost lost his arm."

"Oh, my dear Nora," said her mother. "There is no need of imagining such terrible things, but I am glad Dr. Brown is to be here. It is quite providential. I am sure he will put poor Mr. Romayne right. Kathleen, dear," continued the mother, turning to her elder daughter, "I think it would be very nice if you would run over to-morrow while Mrs. Waring-Gaunt drives to the station. I am sure it is very kind of her."

"I know it is, Mother dear," said Kathleen. "But don't you think you would be so much better?"

"Oh, rubbish!" cried Nora. "If it were not Jane that is coming, I would go myself; I would only be too glad to go. He is perfectly splendid, so patient, and so jolly too, and Kathleen, you ought to go."

"Nora, dear, we won't discuss it," said the mother in the tone that the family knew meant the end of all conversation. Kathleen hurried away from them and took refuge in her own room. Then shutting the door, she began pacing the floor, fighting once more the battle which during that last ten days she had often fought with herself and of which she was thoroughly weary. "Oh," she groaned, wringing her hands, "I cannot do it. I cannot look at him." She thought of that calm, impassive face which for the past three months this English gentleman had carried in all of his intercourse with her, and over against that reserve of his she contrasted her own passionate abandonment of herself in that dreadful moment of self-revelation. The contrast caused her to writhe in an agony of self-loathing. She knew little of men, but instinctively she felt that in his sight she had cheapened herself and never could she bear to look at him again. She tried to recall those glances of his and those broken, passionate words uttered during the moments of his physical suffering that seemed to mean something more than friendliness. Against these, however, was the constantly recurring picture of a calm cold face and of intercourse marked with cool indifference. "Oh, he cannot love me," she cried to herself. "I am sure he does not love me, and I just threw myself at him." In her march up and down the room she paused before her mirror and looked at the face that stared so wildly back at her. Her eyes rested on the red line of her mouth. "Oh," she groaned, rubbing vigorously those full red lips. "I just kissed him." She paused in the rubbing operation, gazed abstractedly into the glass; a tender glow drove the glare from her eyes, a delicious softness as from some inner well overflowed her countenance, the red blood surged up into her white face; she fled from her accusing mirror, buried her burning face in the pillow in an exultation of rapture. She dared not put into words the thoughts that rioted in her heart. "But I loved it, I loved it; I am glad I did." Lying there, she strove to recall in shameless abandon the sensation of those ecstatic moments, whispering in passionate self-defiance, "I don't care what he thinks. I don't care if I was horrid. I am not sorry. Besides, he looked so dreadful." But she was too honest not to acknowledge to herself that not for pity's sake but for love's she had kissed him, and without even his invitation. Then once again she recalled the look in his eyes of surprise in the moment of his returning consciousness, and the little smile that played around his lips. Again wave upon wave of sickening self- loathing flooded from her soul every memory of the bliss of that supreme moment. Even now she could feel the bite of the cold, half humorous scorn in the eyes that had opened upon her as she withdrew her lips from his. On the back of this came another memory, sharp and stabbing, that this man was ill, perhaps terribly ill. "We are a little anxious about him," his sister had said, and she had mentioned the word "blood-poisoning." Of the full meaning of that dread word Kathleen had little knowledge, but it held for her a horror of something unspeakably dangerous. He had been restless, sleepless, suffering for the last two days and two nights. That very night and that very hour he was perhaps tossing in fever. An uncontrollable longing came over her to go to him. Perhaps she might give him a few hours' rest, might indeed help to give him the turn to health again. After all, what mattered her feelings. What difference if he should despise her, provided she brought him help in an hour of crisis. Physically weary with the long struggle through which she had been passing during the last ten days, sick at heart, and torn with anxiety for the man she loved, she threw herself upon her bed and abandoned herself to a storm of tears. Her mother came announcing tea, but this she declined, pleading headache and a desire to sleep. But no sooner had her mother withdrawn than she rose from her bed and with deliberate purpose sat herself down in front of her mirror again. She would have this out with herself now. "Well, you are a beauty, sure enough," she said, addressing her swollen and disfigured countenance. "Why can't you behave naturally? You are acting like a fool and you are not honest with yourself. Come now, tell the truth for a few minutes if you can. Do you want to go and see this man or not? Answer truly." "Well, I do then." The blue eyes looked back defiantly at her. "Why? to help him? for his sake? Come, the truth." "Yes, for his sake, at least partly." "And for your own sake, too? Come now, none of that. Never mind the blushing." "Yes, for my own sake, too." "Chiefly for your own sake?" "No, I do not think so. Chiefly I wish to help him." "Then why not go?" Ah, this is a poser. She looks herself fairly in the eye, distinctly puzzled. Why should she not simply go to him and help him through a bad hour? With searching, deliberate persistence she demanded an answer. She will have the truth out of herself. "Why not go to him if you so desire to help him?" "Because I am ashamed, because I have made myself cheap, and I cannot bear his eyes upon me. Because if I have made a mistake and he does not care for me--oh, then I never want to see him again, for he would pity me, and that I cannot bear." "What? Not even to bring him rest and relief from his pain? Not to help him in a critical hour? He has been asking for you, remember." Steadily they face each other, eye to eye, and all at once she is conscious that the struggle is over, and, looking at the face in the glass, she says, "Yes, I think I would be willing to do that for him, no matter how it would shame me." Another heart-searching pause, and the eyes answer her again, "I will go to-morrow." At once she reads a new peace in the face that gazes at her so weary and wan, and she knows that for the sake of the man she loves she is willing to endure even the shame of his pity. The battle was over and some sort of victory at least she had won. An eager impatience possessed her to go to him at once. "I wish it were to-morrow now, this very minute."

She rose and looked out into the night. There was neither moon nor stars and a storm was brewing, but she knew she could find her way in the dark. Quietly and with a great peace in her heart she bathed her swollen face, changed her dress to one fresh from the ironing board--pale blue it was with a dainty vine running through it--threw a wrap about her and went out to her mother.

"I am going up to the Waring-Gaunts', Mother. They might need me," she said in a voice of such serene control that her mother only answered,

"Yes, dear, Larry will go with you. He will soon be in."

"There is no need, Mother, I am not afraid."

Her mother made no answer but came to her and with a display of tenderness unusual between them put her arms about her and kissed her. "Good-night, then, darling; I am sure you will do them good."

The night was gusty and black, but Kathleen had no fear. The road was known to her, and under the impulse of the purpose that possessed her she made nothing of the darkness nor of the approaching storm. She hurried down the lane toward the main trail, refusing to discuss with herself the possible consequence of what she was doing. Nor did she know just what situation she might find at the Waring-Gaunts'. They would doubtless be surprised to see her. They might not need her help at all. She might be going upon a fool's errand, but all these suppositions and forebodings she brushed aside. She was bent upon an errand of simple kindness and help. If she found she was not needed she could return home and no harm done.

Receiving no response to her knock, she went quietly into the living room. A lamp burned low upon the table. There was no one to be seen. Upstairs a child was wailing and the mother's voice could be heard soothing the little one to sleep. From a bedroom, of which the door stood open, a voice called. The girl's heart stood still. It was Jack's voice, and he was calling for his sister. She ran upstairs to the children's room.

"He is calling for you," she said to Mrs. Waring-Gaunt without preliminary greeting. "Let me take Doris."

But Doris set up a wail of such acute dismay that the distracted mother said, "Could you just step in and see what is wanted? Jack has been in bed for two days. We have been unable to get a nurse anywhere, and tonight both little girls are ill. I am so thankful you came over. Indeed, I was about to send for one of you. Just run down and see what Jack wants. I hope you don't mind. I shall be down presently when Doris goes to sleep."

"I am not going to sleep, Mamma," answered Doris emphatically. "I am going to keep awake, for if I go to sleep I know you will go away."

"All right, darling, Mother is going to stay with you," and she took the little one in her arms, adding, "Now we are all right, aren't we."

Kathleen ran downstairs, turned up the light in the living room and passed quietly into the bedroom.

"Sorry to trouble you, Sybil, but there's something wrong with this infernal bandage."

Kathleen went and brought in the lamp. "Your sister cannot leave Doris, Mr. Romayne," she said quietly. "Perhaps I can be of use."

For a few moments the sick man gazed at her as at a vision. "Is this another of them?" he said wearily. "I have been having hallucinations of various sorts for the last two days, but you do look real. It is you, Kathleen, isn't it?"

"Really me, Mr. Romayne," said the girl cheerfully. "Let me look at your arm."

"Oh, hang it, say 'Jack,' won't you, and be decent to a fellow. My God, I have wanted you for these ten days. Why didn't you come to me? What did I do? I hurt you somehow, but you know I wouldn't willingly. Why have you stayed away from me?" He raised himself upon his elbow, his voice was high, thin, weak, his eyes glittering, his cheeks ghastly with the high lights of fever upon them.

Shocked, startled and filled with a poignant mothering pity, Kathleen struggled with a longing to take him in her arms and comfort him as the mother was the little wailing child upstairs.

"Excuse me just a moment," she cried, and ran out into the living room and then outside the door and stood for a moment in the dark, drawing deep breaths and struggling to get control of the pity and of the joy that surged through her heart. "Oh, God," she cried, lifting her hands high above her head in appeal, "help me to be strong and steady. He needs me and he wants me too."

From the darkness in answer to her appeal there came a sudden quietness of nerve and a sense of strength and fitness for her work. Quickly she entered the house and went again to the sick room.

"Thank God," cried Jack. "I thought I was fooled again. You won't go away, Kathleen, for a little while, will you? I feel just like a kiddie in the dark, do you know? Like a fool rather. You won't go again?" He raised himself upon his arm, the weak voice raised to a pitiful appeal.

It took all her own fortitude to keep her own voice steady. "No, Jack, I am going to stay. I am your nurse, you know, and I am your boss too. You must do just as I say. Remember that. You must behave yourself as a sick man should."

He sank back quietly upon the pillow. "Thank God. Anything under heaven I promise if only you stay, Kathleen. You will stay, won't you?"

"Didn't you hear me promise?"

"Yes, yes," he said, a great relief in his tired face. "All right, I am good. But you have made me suffer, Kathleen."

"Now, then, no talk," said Kathleen. "We will look at that arm."

She loosened the bandages. The inflamed and swollen appearance of the arm sickened and alarmed her. There was nothing she could do there. She replaced the bandages. "You are awfully hot. I am going to sponge your face a bit if you will let me."

"Go on," he said gratefully, "do anything you like if only you don't go away again."

"Now, none of that. A nurse doesn't run away from her job, does she?" She had gotten control of herself, and her quick, clever fingers, with their firm, cool touch, seemed to bring rest to the jangling nerves of the sick man. Whatever it was, whether the touch of her fingers or the relief of the cool water upon his fevered face and arm, by the time the bathing process was over, Jack was lying quietly, already rested and looking like sleep.

"I say, this is heavenly," he murmured. "Now a drink, if you please. I believe there is medicine about due too," he said. She gave him a drink, lifting up his head on her strong arm. "I could lift myself, you know," he said, looking up into her face with a little smile, "but I like this way so much better if you don't mind."

"Certainly not; I am your nurse, you know," replied Kathleen. "Now your medicine." She found the bottle under his direction and, again lifting his head, gave him his medicine.

"Oh, this is fine. I will take my medicine as often as you want me to, and I think another drink would be good." She brought him the glass. "I like to drink slowly," he said, looking up into her eyes. But she shook her head at him.

"No nonsense now," she warned him.

"Nonsense!" he said, sinking back with a sigh, "I want you to believe me, Kathleen, it is anything but nonsense. My God, it is religion!"

"Now then," said Kathleen, ignoring his words, "I shall just smooth out your pillows and straighten down your bed, tuck you in and make you comfortable for the night and then--"

"And then," he interrupted eagerly, "oh, Kathleen, all good children get it, you know."

A deep flush tinged her face. "Now you are not behaving properly."

"But, Kathleen," he cried, "why not? Listen to me. There's no use. I cannot let you go till I have this settled. I must know. No, don't pull away from me, Kathleen. You know I love you, with all my soul, with all I have, I love you. Oh, don't pull away from me. Ever since that day when I first saw you three months ago I have loved you. I have tried not to. God knows I have tried not to because I thought you were pledged to that--that German fellow. Tell me, Kathleen. Why you are shaking, darling! Am I frightening you? I would not frighten you. I would not take advantage of you. But do you care a little bit? Tell me. I have had ten days of sheer hell. For one brief minute I thought you loved me. You almost said you did. But then you never came to me and I have feared that you did not care. But to-night I must know. I must know now." He raised himself up to a sitting posture. "Tell me, Kathleen; I must know."

"Oh, Jack," she panted. "You are not yourself now. You are weak and just imagine things."

"Imagine things," he cried with a kind of fierce rage. "Imagine! Haven't I for these three months fought against this every day? Oh, Kathleen, if you only knew. Do you love me a little, even a little?"

Suddenly the girl ceased her struggling. "A little!" she cried. "No, Jack, not a little, but with all my heart I love you. I should not tell you to-night, and, oh, I meant to be so strong and not let you speak till you were well again, but I can't help it. But are you quite sure, Jack? Are you sure you won't regret this when you are well again?"

He put his strong arm round about her and drew her close. "I can't half hold you, darling," he said in her ear. "This confounded arm of mine--but you do it for me. Put your arms around me, sweetheart, and tell me that you love me."

She wreathed her arms round about his neck and drew him close. "Oh, Jack," she said, "I may be wrong, but I am so happy, and I never thought to be happy again. I cannot believe it. Oh, what awful days these have been!" she said with a break in her voice and hiding her face upon his shoulder.

"Never mind, sweetheart, think of all the days before us."

"Are you sure, Jack?" she whispered to him, still hiding her face. "Are you very sure that you will not be ashamed of me? I felt so dreadful and I came in just to help you, and I was so sure of myself. But when I saw you lying there, Jack, I just could not help myself." Her voice broke.

He turned her face up a little toward him. "Look at me," he said. She opened her eyes and, looking steadily into his, held them there. "Say, 'Jack, I love you,'" he whispered to her.

A great flood of red blood rushed over her face, then faded, leaving her white, but still her eyes held his fast. "Jack," she whispered, "my Jack, I love you."

"Kathleen, dear heart," he said.

Closer he drew her lips toward his. Suddenly she closed her eyes, her whole body relaxed, and lay limp against him. As his lips met hers, her arms tightened about him and held him in a strong embrace. Then she opened her eyes, raised herself up, and gazed at him as if in surprise. "Oh, Jack," she cried, "I cannot think it is true. Are you sure? I could not bear it if you were mistaken."

There was the sound of a footstep on the stair. "Let me go, Jack; there's your sister coming. Quick! Lie down." Hurriedly, she began once more to bathe his face as Mrs. Waring-Gaunt came in.

"Is he resting?" she said. "Why, Jack, you seem quite feverish. Did you give him his medicine?"

"Yes, about an hour ago, I think."

"An hour! Why, before you came upstairs? How long have you been in?"

"Oh, no, immediately after I came down," said the girl in confusion. "I don't know how long ago. I didn't look at the time." She busied herself straightening the bed.

"Sybil, she doesn't know how long ago," said Jack. "She's been behaving as I never have heard of any properly trained nurse behaving. She's been kissing me."

"Oh, Jack," gasped Kathleen, flushing furiously.

"Kissing you!" exclaimed Mrs. Waring-Gaunt, looking from one to the other.

"Yes, and I have been kissing her," continued Jack shamelessly.

"Oh, Jack," again gasped Kathleen, looking at Mrs. Waring-Gaunt beseechingly.

"Yes," continued Jack in a voice of triumph, "and we are going to do it right along every day and all day long with suitable pauses for other duties and pleasures."

"Oh, you darling," exclaimed Mrs. Waring-Gaunt rushing at her. "I am so glad. Well, you are a 'wunner' as the Marchioness says. I had thought--but never mind. Jack, dear, I do congratulate you. I think you are in awful luck. Yes, and you too, Kathleen, for he is a fine boy. I will go and tell Tom this minute."

"Do," said Jack, "and please don't hurry. My nurse is perfectly competent to take care of me in the meantime."