The nurse touched him on the shoulder, he started and awoke.  She screened the lamp with her hand.  Everett saw that Katharine was awake and conscious, and struggling a little.  He lifted her gently on his arm and began to fan her.  She looked into his face with eyes that seemed never to have wept or doubted.  “Ah, dear Adriance, dear, dear!” she whispered.

Everett went to call her brother, but when they came back the madness of art was over for Katharine.

Two days later Everett was pacing the station siding, waiting for the west-bound train.  Charley Gaylord walked beside him, but the two men had nothing to say to each other.  Everett’s bags were piled on the truck, and his step was hurried and his eyes were full of impatience, as he gazed again and again up the track, watching for the train.  Gaylord’s impatience was not less than his own; these two, who had grown so close, had now become painful and impossible to each other, and longed for the wrench of farewell.

As the train pulled in, Everett wrung Gaylord’s hand among the crowd of alighting passengers.  The people of a German opera company, en route for the coast, rushed by them in frantic haste to snatch their breakfast during the stop.  Everett heard an exclamation, and a stout woman rushed up to him, glowing with joyful surprise and caught his coat-sleeve with her tightly gloved hands.

“Herr Gott, Adriance, lieber Freund,” she cried.

Everett lifted his hat, blushing.  “Pardon me, madame, I see that you have mistaken me for Adriance Hilgarde.  I am his brother.”  Turning from the crestfallen singer he hurried into the car.