“I’ve known Indian medicine-men who could give that doctor cards an’ spades,” he exploded, with gruff finality.

Lenore understood her father perfectly and imagined she understood the celebrated scientist.  The former was just human and the latter was simply knowledge.  Neither had that which caused her to go out alone into the dark night and look up beyond the slow-rising slope to the stars.  These men, particularly the scientist, lacked something.  He possessed all the wonderful knowledge of body and brain, of the metabolism and chemistry of the organs, but he knew nothing of the source of life.  Lenore accorded science its place in progress, but she hated its elimination of the soul.  Stronger than ever, strength to endure and to trust pervaded her spirit.  The dark night encompassing her, the vast, lonely heave of wheat-slope, the dim sky with its steady stars—­these were voices as well as tangible things of the universe, and she was in mysterious harmony with them.  “Lift thine eyes to the hills from whence cometh thy help!”

* * * * *

The day following the specialist’s visit Dorn surprised the family doctor, the nurse, Anderson, and all except Lenore by awakening to a spell of consciousness which seemed to lift, for the time at least, the shadow of death.

Kathleen was the first to burst in upon Lenore with the wonderful news.  Lenore could only gasp her intense eagerness and sit trembling, hands over her heart, while the child babbled.

“I listened, and I peeped in,” was Kathleen’s reiterated statement.  “Kurt was awake.  He spoke, too, but very soft.  Say, he knows he’s at ‘Many Waters.’  I heard him say, ’Lenore’....  Oh, I’m so happy, Lenore—­that before he dies he’ll know you—­talk to you.”

“Hush, child!” whispered Lenore.  “Kurt’s not going to die.”

“But they all say so.  That funny little doctor yesterday—­he made me tired—­but he said so.  I heard him as dad put him into the car.”

“Yes, Kathie, I heard him, too, but I do not believe,” replied Lenore, dreamily.

“Kurt doesn’t look so—­so sick,” went on Kathleen.  “Only—­only I don’t know what—­different, I guess.  I’m crazy to go in—­to see him.  Lenore, will they ever let me?”

Their father’s abrupt entrance interrupted the conversation.  He was pale, forceful, as when issues were at stake but were undecided.

“Kathie, go out,” he said.

Lenore rose to face him.

“My girl—­Dorn’s come to—­an’ he’s asked for you.  I was for lettin’ him see you.  But Lowell an’ Jarvis say no—­not yet....  Now he might die any minute.  Seems to me he ought to see you.  It’s right.  An’ if you say so—­”

“Yes,” replied Lenore.

“By Heaven!  He shall see you, then,” said Anderson, breathing hard.  “I’m justified even—­even if it...”  He did not finish his significant speech, but left her abruptly.

Presently Lenore was summoned.  When she left her room she was in the throes of uncontrolled agitation, and all down the long hallway she fought herself.  At the half-open door she paused to lean against the wall.  There she had the will to still her nerves, to acquire serenity; and she prayed for wisdom to make her presence and her words of infinite good to Dorn in this crisis.