In a place where it is difficult to surprise people, they were astonished women as they removed the Angel’s dainty stained and torn clothing, drew off hose muck-baked to her limbs, soaked the dried loam from her silken hair, and washed the beautiful scratched, bruised, dirt-covered body.  The Angel fell fast asleep long before they had finished, and lay deeply unconscious, while the fight for Freckles’ life was being waged.

Three days later she was the same Angel as of old, except that Freckles was constantly in her thoughts.  The anxiety and responsibility that she felt for his condition had bred in her a touch of womanliness and authority that was new.  That morning she arose early and hovered near Freckles’ door.  She had been allowed to remain with him constantly, for the nurses and surgeons had learned, with his returning consciousness, that for her alone would the active, highly strung, pain-racked sufferer be quiet and obey orders.  When she was dropping from loss of sleep, the threat that she would fall ill had to be used to send her to bed.  Then by telling Freckles that the Angel was asleep and they would waken her the moment he moved, they were able to control him for a short time.

The surgeon was with Freckles.  The Angel had been told that the word he brought that morning would be final, so she curled in a window seat, dropped the curtains behind her, and in dire anxiety, waited the opening of the door.

Just as it unclosed, McLean came hurrying down the hall and to the surgeon, but with one glance at his face he stepped back in dismay; while the Angel, who had arisen, sank to the seat again, too dazed to come forward.  The men faced each other.  The Angel, with parted lips and frightened eyes, bent forward in tense anxiety.

“I—­I thought he was doing nicely?” faltered McLean.

“He bore the operation well,” replied the surgeon, “and his wounds are not necessarily fatal.  I told you that yesterday, but I did not tell you that something else probably would kill him; and it will.  He need not die from the accident, but he will not live the day out.”

“But why?  What is it?” asked McLean hurriedly.  “We all dearly love the boy.  We have millions among us to do anything that money can accomplish.  Why must he die, if those broken bones are not the cause?”

“That is what I am going to give you the opportunity to tell me,” replied the surgeon.  “He need not die from the accident, yet he is dying as fast as his splendid physical condition will permit, and it is because he so evidently prefers death to life.  If he were full of hope and ambition to live, my work would be easy.  If all of you love him as you prove you do, and there is unlimited means to give him anything he wants, why should he desire death?”

“Is he dying?” demanded McLean.

“He is,” said the surgeon.  “He will not live this day out, unless some strong reaction sets in at once.  He is so low, that preferring death to life, nature cannot overcome his inertia.  If he is to live, he must be made to desire life.  Now he undoubtedly wishes for death, and that it come quickly.”