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hour he had been puzzled with this mysterious ceiling. Nothing supported it in the middle. Why did it not fall? It was late. Every one about him was silent; they went sneaking about pretending to be ghosts, he thought. They were trying to convince him that he was dead already. He closed his eyes. He was too tired or too indifferent to keep them open. He heard the doctor come in, and felt him reading the pulse. Then the big, confident voice boomed:

“I am sorry, Lady Morgan. There is nothing to do now. I do not even know what is the matter with him. Some old jungle fever, perhaps. I could bleed him again, I suppose, but we have taken a great deal of blood already, and it seems to do no good. However, if he begins to sink, I shall try it again.”

“Then he will die” Lady Morgan asked. Henry thought she showed more curiosity than sorrow.

“Yes, he will die unless God intervenes. Only God can be sure of his patients.”

And then the room was cleared of people. Henry knew that his wife was sitting near the bed. He could hear her crying softly beside him. “What a pity it is,” he thought, “that I cannot go to death in a ship so she might pack my bag for me. It would give her so much satisfaction to know that I was entering heaven with a decent supply of clean linen.”

“Oh, my husband— Oh, Henry, my husband.”

He turned his head and looked at her curiously,