"His throat's already irritated," said Nance, in her most professional
tone. "I am sure Dr. Adair wouldn't want him to smoke."

"But we can't refuse him anything to-night," said Mrs. Clarke, with an
apologetic smile as she reached for the matches.

Nance looking at her straight, delicate profile thrown into sudden relief
by the flare of the match, had the same disturbing sense of familiarity
that she had experienced long ago in the cathedral.

But during the next twenty-four hours there was no time to analyze
subtle impressions or to indulge in sentimental reminiscence. From the
moment Mac's unconscious form was borne down from the operating room and
handed over to her care, he ceased to be a man and became a critically
ill patient.

"We haven't much to work on," said Dr. Adair, shaking his head. "He has
no resisting power. He has burned himself out."

But Mac's powers of resistance were stronger than he thought, and by the
time Mr. Clarke arrived the crisis was passed. Slowly and painfully he
struggled back to consciousness, and his first demand was for Nance.

"It's the nurse he had when he first came," Mrs. Clarke explained to her
husband. "You must make Dr. Adair give her back to us. She's the only
nurse I've ever seen who could get Mac to do things. By the way, she used
to be in your office, a rather pretty, graceful girl, named Molloy."

"I remember her," said Mr. Clarke, grimly. "You better leave things as