W

HEN Eloise heard of the Doctor's illness she felt, for an instant, that all his praises the previous evening had been vain and idle, for at the first serious shock her strength seemed to have departed from her. However, this lasted but a moment. The thought that he was alone, with only the care of an ordinary servant, brought a strong reaction; and, packing a basket with such necessaries for the sick as she and Mrs. Hay now kept constantly on hand, she set off to visit him.

She found her worst fears realized. The attack was one of more than ordinary severity. Already he lay in a half-unconscious stupor, and only replied to her questions by some incoherencies concerning his patients. Then he turned his face away from her, and seemed like one in an uneasy sleep, except that the labored and hurried breathing, and the crimson fever-flush, made the presence of disease but too evident.

"If you please."

Eloise was annoyed at the way in which he deferred to her. She had hoped that he would assume all authority at once, and so relieve her, but the Jesuit had a sincere desire, if possible,to disentangle this unfortunate family difficulty, and he preferred, for the sake of Mrs. Elsie's sensitive nerves, to be sent on this delicate mission.

Father Dunne said a few words more to Eloise, and then started on his journey. He was human, and, strive as he might against it, there was something in the cool and steady courage of this woman, united as it was with the most perfect delicacy and propriety, which fascinated him more than he was willing to acknowledge even to himself.

"What a religeuse she would make!" he said to himself. "I don't know a lady abbess in this country, or the old, to compare with her." At the same time a subtile instinct

"This is a sad blow," he said, as he entered the room and looked at the still, unconscious sufferer. "What can I do for you? I shall serve you gladly, willingly."

"I want you to go for Elsie," said Eloise, calmiy: "there is no other person so fit to bear the sorrowful tidings."

Father Dunne looked at her steadily. If you send me, I shall go," he said.

"I do not presume to be authoritative," she replied, smiling, “but I felt that you would see the necessity of her being here, and that you were the best person to carry the news and to be her escort back."

"Thank you: I shall then start

at once."

You, too, admire her, then?" Elsie spoke, a little petulantly.

"I only answered for her qualities as a nurse," said the priest, somewhat drily.

Holy Father," she said, "I know all about that, and I confess I am greatly distracted in my mind. As my spiritual director, tell me what is my duty."

Father Dunne, with the instinct of a man of tact, and an expert in human nature, felt that there was such a thing as making matters worse by an excess of outside pressure.

He replied, with a slight shade of reserve in his tone:

"It is, fortunately, a matter in

say,

may

"I came at her request, I command." "I suppose she has had a good deal of experience, and knows exactly what to do for Richard ?"

Yes," said Father Dunne, a little wonderingly, "she is, undoubtedly, the best person to be at his bedside-except his wife."

Elsie sat silent, with her eyes on the floor. Father Dunne watched her closely.

"If he had a wife," she said, at length, —“ a wife whom he loved, and who felt herself necessary to him, she would, of course, face danger and death in his service."

Her face was pale, and Father Dunne felt just then that she was con stitutionally timid.

"My daughter, you are his wife, whether or not he recognizes the fact."

"Yes," said Elsie, deprecatingly, "but I am also my child's mother. Did Richard desire me to come to him?"

You must have seen a good deal of them during these past few weeks. If Richard were conscious, do you think, in his heart of hearts, he would desire my presence?

"I have seen a good deal of them," said Father Dunne," and that which I saw was mainly to their credit. Still, I do not pretend to know what may be in the heart of hearts of a man situated as he is."

"Which means that you dare not affirm that he wants me at all."

Father Dunne did not deny it. He was, after all, a little surprised at this' exhibition of feeling, or rather of indifference, on the part of Elsie. It seemed to him to indicate something in her mind which he had not fully sounded. He felt, moreover, the quiet force of her way of putting the case. Why should she face a possible danger, a certain hardship, for the sake of a man who not only did not want her, but who would possibly be much better off without her? Still, to desert a husband in such a crisis was not what the Church would dicHe must give her a little more rope, and see what would come of it. "Then I am to understand," he said at length, "that you prefer not to be your husband's nurse.'

tate.

"I think," she said, "that my duty demands that I should remain here and take care of my child.”

Father Dunne was aware of two things that Mrs. G'endenning did not love her husband, and that she was not born for a sister of charity. He began himself to be puzzled about the solution of this affair.

"There is another circumstance," said Elsie, at length, and a little hesitatingly," which, perhaps, I ought to mention, as having some bearing upon the question of my going to Brockendale just now."

Father Dunne knew women well enough to divine, that, in this latementioned and apparently only slightly relevant matter, he might probably discover the secret of that inconsistency in Mrs. Glendenning's conduct which had so puzzled him. He was, therefore, instantly all attention.

Elsie went on: "Uncle Vaughan is just now very ill. Indeed, it is hardly possible that he should recover. He has sent for a lawyer, and will make his will this evening.'

"Ah!" said Father Dunne, luminously: "Have you expectations, my daughter?"

Elsie cast down her eyes, as became her, but she did not blush. A matter of cash was not a matter to be sentimentalized with her.

"He has always promised to leave me something," she said," and recently—that is, since we have heard that Eloise was at Brockendale-my aunt and myself have had several conversations on the subject. I think it is probable that a good deal may depend upon my presence here just

now."

he said to Elsie, "and I believe I need not interfere with it;" and he gave her his blessing, and left.

On his way home he speculated : "Her manner was serious, and in such matters she is an exact little saint. Mr. Vaughan is very wealthy, and has but one son. She will have twenty thousand dollars at the least. A good operation."

When he reached Brockendale he went straight to the Doctor's sick chamber. Eloise rose expectantly to meet him. She was looking worn and anxious.

"Good morning, madam," said the priest, blandly, "How is your patient? "

"The case is very critical. When is Elsie coming? I thought she wou'd have returned with you."

The priest looked straight into her eyes.

"Mrs. Glendenning has consented," he said at length, slowly and impressively, "in view of the imperative duties which confine her, and your greater experience as nurse, to waive her rights in this sick chamber, and to devolve her responsibilities upon you. Mr. Abner Vaughan is very ill, and requires all the time and attention which she can spare from the care of her child. Are you willing to accept this great trust which she reposes in you?"

Elsie was clear sighted. She divined the whole thing at a glance. Somewhat to the priest's surprise, she replied:

My cousin Elsie prefers to nurse a dying magnate rather than a possibly dying husband. She lets the case go by default. Very well. If you ever have occasion, you may say to her that the life she holds of so little value is of untold and imperishable worth to me. I shall most willingly, most gladly take up the trust which she resigns. Henceforth my place is here till death claims his tribute, or till I can return to Elsie, convalescent and still able to fulfill the duties of

husband and protector, this prostrate, helpless form."

If Father Dunne felt the stinging rebuke her words conveyed, he passed it over with somewhat more than his usual phlegm, looking forward, it may be, to a possibility of recompense for her present pain which she could not foresee.

When he left her, Eloise gave one thought to the woman dancing attendance upon the rich man's deathbed, and repeated to herself:

"So round and round we run,
And ever the Right comes uppermost,

And ever is Justice done."

From that moment no tremor of dissatisfaction or regret assailed her, but every energy was bent upon the task before her.

It was a serious one. For three weeks the Doctor lay upon his fevered couch a helpless, unconscious sufferer. The forces of his system, worn with the long struggle to save others from the destroyer, seemed daily to falter and give way before the terrible inroads of the disease. Daytime and night-time the watch must be constant and unvarying-that at no point should the assailant gain even a momentary advantage. Nothing but the tireless energy of love could pos-, sibly meet the demands so ceaseless and inordinate. In the second week, Abner Vaughan died and was buried. Some one suggested then that Mrs. Glendenning would probably release. the self-appointed watcher from her onerous cares. Eloise maintained a firm but rigid silence, but the doctor did not hesitate to say:

"I would not change her nurse now for the price of the patient's life. Mrs. Glendenning is inexperienced. Miss Vaughan is no doubt weary, but she has a look of endurance yet.

She must remain."

So Elsie was written to, and advised to stay where she was, and she

did so.

There came at last a day when a crisis evidently impended. All through

the long agony of watching, the Doctor had lain, for the most part, in a stupor, which had been only relieved by snatches of rambling delirious consciousness; but now faint gleams of intelligence lighted the sunken eyes, and now and then a motion of the head, or a sound of the voice, betrayed a recognition of his surroundings. Toward evening, Eloise stepped out of the room for a few moments, and, coming back to relieve the attendant, she saw at once that the glance which met hers was that of a settled and clear, though fearfully prostrate intelligence. As she seated herself at his bedside, he stretched out his hand to her. It was a solemn moment to both of them, for both knew that upon the turn which the disease might take within the next few hours, his life depended. She laid her hand in his without a word, beaming upon him such a look as can shine out of no eyes but those made calm and tender by a perfect and reciprocal love. For a moment a deep unbroken silence reigned, in which all the past, with its stern yet joyful experiences, all the present, with its momentous doubt and peril, seemed to both of them to be comprehended.

"Eloise," he said, in a voice as low as the whisper of a babe : Eloise, is it forever?"