"What is it, Lance?" I asked.

"Why, that the girl she went yesterday to see, Rose Winter, is ill with
the most malignant type of small-pox."

I looked at him in horror.

"Do you think," I gasped, "that the--that Mrs. Fleming has caught it?"

"I am quite sure," he replied. "I have just sent for the doctor, and
have telegraphed to the hospital for two nurses. And my old friend," he
added, "I am afraid it is going to be a bad case."

It was a bad case. I never left him while the suspense lasted; but it
was soon over. She suffered intensely, for the disease was of the most
virulent type. It was soon over. Lance came to me one afternoon, and I
read the verdict in his face.

"She will die," he said, hoarsely. "They cannot save her," and the day
after that he came to me again with wistful eyes.

"John," he said, slowly, "my wife is dying, and she wants to see you.
Will you see her?"

"Most certainly," I replied.

She smiled when she saw me, and beckoned me to her. Ah, poor soul! her
judgment had indeed been taken from me. She whispered to me: