XIV


With Dorothy clinging to his hand, Marcus Gard watched the door of Mrs.
Marteen's library with an ever-growing anxiety. Only the presence of the
child, who clasped his hand in such fear and grief, kept him from giving
way. The long reign of terror that had dragged his heart and mind to the
very edge of martyrdom had worn thin his already exhausted nerves, and
now--now that the lost was found again, it was to learn by what a
slender thread of life they held her with them.

Every moment he could spare from the demands of his responsibilities was
spent in close companionship with Dorothy in the house where only the
sound of soft-footed nurses, the clink of a spoon in a medicine glass or
the tread of the doctor mounting the stairs broke the waiting silence.
For many days she had not known them. Now came intervals of
consciousness and coherence, but weakness so great that the two anxious
watchers, unused to illness, were appalled by the change it wrought. Now
for the twentieth time they sat longing for and yet fearing the moment
when Dr. Balys, with his friendly eyes and grim mouth, would enter to
them with the tale of his last visit and his hopes or fears for the
next.

The lamps were lighted, the shades drawn; the fire crackled quietly on
the hearth. The room was filled with the familiar perfume of violets,
for Dorothy, true to her mother's custom, kept every vase filled with
them.

Silently Gard patted the little cold hand in his, as the sound of