it than John.

Anne, waiting till he has finished jerking out sentences while
stamping up and down the room, says gently, taking no notice of his
denials,--"If you will not tell me I must find out from some one
else--that is all." Then, her quick eyes noting his momentary
hesitation, she lays her little hand on his rough paw, and, with the
shamelessness of a woman who loves deeply, wheedles everything out of
him that he has promised to keep secret.

He stops her, however, as she is leaving the room. "Don't go in to
him now," he says; "he will worry about you. Wait till to-morrow."

So, while John lies counting endless casks of tallow, Anne sits by
his side, tending her last "case."

Often in his delirium he calls her name, and she takes his fevered
hand in hers and holds it, and he falls asleep.

Each morning the doctor comes and looks at him, asks a few questions
and gives a few commonplace directions, but makes no comment. It
would be idle his attempting to deceive her.

The days move slowly through the darkened room. Anne watches his
thin hands grow thinner, his sunken eyes grow bigger; yet remains
strangely calm, almost contented.

Very near the end there comes an hour when John wakes as from a
dream, and remembers all things clearly.