XV


The following day found Marcus Gard at the usual morning hour in
conference with Dorothy. The girl was radiant. The nurses had reported a
splendid sleep and a calm awakening. She had been allowed a moment with
her mother, whose voice was no longer faint, but was regaining its old
vibrant quality.

The doctor entered smiling and grasped Gard's extended hand.

"You said it," he laughed. "Whatever it was, you said it, all right.
Mrs. Marteen slept like a child, and there's color in her face to-day.
See if you can do as well again. I'll give you five minutes--no, ten."

Preceded by the doctor, he once more found his way through the
velvet-hushed corridors to the softly lighted bedroom, where lay the
woman who had absorbed his every thought. Her eyes, as they met his,
were bright with anxiety, and her glance at the doctor was almost
resentful. But it was not part of the physician's plan to interfere with
any confidence that might relieve the patient's mind. With a casual nod
to Mrs. Marteen, he called to the nurse and led her from the room, his
finger rapidly tapping the sick-room chart, as if medical directions
were first in his mind.

Left alone, Gard approached the bed, and in answer to the unspoken
question in her eyes, fumbled in his pocket and brought forth the thin
packets of letters and the folded yellow cheques. One by one he laid
them where her hands could touch them. He dared not look at her. He felt
that her newly awakened soul was staring from her eyes at the mute