during the first week of ogilvie's illness rosamund went once or twice to the house at the summit where he lay. doctor blake had heard the story of the fire, and in the deliberate courtesy of his manner rosamund suspected a veiled distrust; she imagined that he was wondering, whenever he looked at her, what manner of woman it was for whom ogilvie had risked his life, and whether she were worthy of his possible sacrifice. she told herself that she would have felt the same, in his place; while, in her humility, she secretly reiterated her own unworthiness. but she knew herself guiltless of actual blame or wrong-doing, and found it hard to endure doctor blake's scrutiny, which seemed both to accuse and weigh and find wanting. yet even that was easier to bear than the tolerant manner of the young woman in the white dress and coquettish cap, who came out of ogilvie's room to assure her, with the tolerant air that seems to be an attribute of street-car conductors, policemen and trained nurses, that there was really no immediate prospect of change in the patient's condition, as pneumonia had to run its definite course.

for all the longing of her heart, and for all the courage with which she started out, rosamund allowed herself to be snubbed into retreat. mother cary alone braved the authoritative one whenever she pleased, or whenever pap would take her across the valley; and it was on the ninth night after the fire that she did what rosamund and ogilvie always declared to be the most merciful and courageous act of all her beautiful life.

"now," she said, after supper, when pap had gone out to the barn to harness the horse for his nightly pilgrimage, "now, honey, this bein' the night when he'll come to, or—when he'll come to, surely—don't you think he ain't goin' to come to, 'cause he is—and you're goin' over with pap to be there!"

rosamund rose from her place beside the table, her hands clasped against her heart, pale, then flushed, then pale again.

mother cary looked up at her. "darlin', come here to yo' ma cary," she said, and, when the girl knelt beside her, she put her arms about her and laid her withered, soft old cheek against rosamund's hair.

"honey," she said, "ma cary knows how you're feelin'! you're a young maid, an' by words unasked; but he's your man, an' you're his woman, in the sight o' god and the knowledge o' your own hearts. ain't it so? yes—but don't cry, my lamb! don't cry like that! this ain't the time to cry. look at me, dearie! that's right! well, i didn't tell you to go, before to-night, because i knew 'twasn't for the best; but now your place is over there, alongside o' him. let him open his eyes on you, ef so be it he is to open them knowin'ly in this world again. an' ef he ain't to be permitted to do that—then, my lamb, it's for you to be there to close 'em. there! that's right! put it all back—grief keeps, an' maybe you won't need it, after all. sho'! hyear me talkin'! why, i jest downright know you won't need it!"

rosamund lifted her white, white face. "but——" she began.

"i know what you're thinkin'," mother cary said. "i once thought that a way, too, befo' pap made me see what was right. put all sech doubts away from you. your love an' his love are worth more than that. look ma cary in the face, lamb, an' tell me—ain't they? there, there, now don't let the tears rise up again. you ain't got time for tears to-night."

"but the nurse—doctor blake—what will they—oh, how can i?"

"it'll be all right with doctor blake. he knows you're comin'! an' as for the nurse, she's a paid hirelin', and you're his woman. jest you bear that in mind, honey—hurry, there's pap's wheels!"

so it came to pass, in that critical hour before dawn when souls so often waver upon the threshold of life, when john ogilvie's breathing became less labored and his eyes opened—tired, to be sure, but with unmistakable consciousness in them—it was rosamund who was bending over him, while the strange woman in the white gown and cap looked at him, felt his pulse, smiled as if satisfied, and went out and closed the door behind her. it was rosamund whose eyes smiled into his with the pitiful, brave effort of trying to make believe that there had never been any danger at all to frighten her. his hand moved toward her, his lips formed her name; and it was rosamund's warm palm which closed over his hand, and her cheek which rested against his as he went to sleep.

"it was rosamund whose eyes smiled into his."