So the wife of Dale looked forward to Doctor Johnston's visits, yet
there were so many doors between her silence and the world, she did
not turn as he entered one eventful day.

Doctors are Nature's confessors, and down the memory of this one
wandered a camel of sympathy upon which the sick had heaped their secret
woes for years, though one added naught to the burden.

It was the tale he wished to hear, and when some fugitive phrase promised
revelation, he folded the powders slowly; but when it ended in a sigh,
he strapped up bottles and expectations and went away, reflecting how
poor the world where one might hear all things save those which interested.

But Time is a patient locksmith to whom all doors swing open.

"I always sit by this window," she began as he removed the fever
thermometer; "I've looked so long, I see nothing in a way--and at night
I always put the light here. If he should come in the dark I want him
to see--here is a letter."

The Doctor read and returned it with a look of infinite pity.

"I had a dream last night; I may be superstitious or it may be the fever--
but it was so real. I saw it all; it was just like my prayer. I believe in
God, you know." She smiled in half reproach. "Yes, in spite of all.

"In that dream something touched my hand and a voice whispered the
word, 'Now.' Oh, how anxious it was! I awoke, sitting up; the lamp
had gone out, yet it was not empty--and there was no wind."