Holmes was leaning on the mantel-shelf; his very lips were pale.

“Yes, I shall, I shall,”—­in his low, hard tone.

Some sudden dream of warmth and beauty flashed before his gray eyes, lighting them as Knowles never had seen before.

“Miss Herne is beautiful,—­let me congratulate you in Western fashion.”

The old man did not hide his sneer.

Holmes bowed.

“I thank you, for her.”

Lois held the candle to light the Doctor out of the long passages.

“Yoh hevn’t seen Barney out ‘t Mr. Howth’s, Doctor?  He’s ther’ now.”

“No.  When shall you have done waiting on this—­man, Lois?  God help you, child!”

Lois’s quick instinct answered,—­

“He’s very kind.  He’s like a woman fur kindness to such as me.  When I come to die, I’d like eyes such as his to look at, tender, pitiful.”

“Women are fools alike,” grumbled the Doctor.  “Never mind.  ’When you come to die?’ What put that into your head?  Look up.”

The child sheltered the flaring candle with her hand.

“I’ve no tho’t o’ dyin’,” she said, laughing.

There was a gray shadow about her eyes, a peaked look to the face, he never saw before, looking at her now with a physician’s eyes.

“Does anything hurt you here?” touching her chest.

“It’s better now.  It was that night o’ th’ fire.  Th’ breath o’ th’ mill, I thenk,—­but it’s nothin’.”

“Burning copperas?  Of course it’s better.  Oh, that’s nothing!” he said, cheerfully.

When they reached the door, he held out his hand, the first time he ever had done it to her, and then waited, patting her on the head.

“I think it’ll come right, Lois,” he said, dreamily, looking out into the night.  “You’re a good girl.  I think it’ll all come right.  For you and me.  Some time.  Good night, child.”

After he was a long way down the street, he turned to nod good-night again to the comical little figure in the doorway.

If Knowles hated anybody that night, he hated the man he had left standing there with pale, heavy jaws, and heart of iron; he could have cursed him, standing there.  He did not see how, after he was left alone, the man lay with his face to the wall, holding his bony hand to his forehead, with a look in his eyes that if you had seen, you would have thought his soul had entered on that path whose steps take hold on hell.

There was no struggle in his face; whatever was the resolve he had reached in the solitary hours when he had stood so close upon the borders of death, it was unshaken now; but the heart, crushed and stifled before, was taking its dire revenge.  If ever it had hungered, through the cold, selfish days, for God’s help, or a woman’s love, it hungered now with a craving like death.  If ever he had thought how bare and vacant the years would be, going down to the grave with lips that never had known a