“Will you ask Miss Barbour if I may speak to her in the morning—­before she goes out?  My name is Van Landing—­Stephen Van Landing.  I was a friend of hers once.”

“One now.”  The doctor’s voice was dryly emphatic.  “Lucky she recognized you.  Rather startled her, finding an old friend so unexpectedly.”  Over his spectacles his kind, shrewd eyes looked down on the man in the bed.  “I’ll see her.  Miss Barbour is an exceptional woman, but she’s a woman, which means when she knows you are all right she may not have time to see you.  At present she’s outside your door.  That’s her knock.  Guess she’s got the milk.”

With breath held, Van Landing listened.  Very low were the words spoken, then the door was closed again.  His heart was calling to her.  The long and empty years in which he had hoped against hope, and yet could make no effort to find her, faded as mist fades before the light that dawns and glows; and to say no word when she was near, to hold hands still that longed to outstretch, to make no sign when he would kneel for pardon at her feet—­it was not to be endured.  He would not wait; the doctor must let her in!

But it was not the doctor who was at his bed.  It was a short, plump woman of more than middle age, with twinkling gray eyes and firm, kind hands and a cheery voice.

“It’s the milk, my son,” she said, and the steaming glass was held to his lips.  “When you’ve had it you will sleep like a baby.  It’s warm, are you—­and the feet good and hot?  Let me feel that water-bag?  Bless my soul if it’s even lukewarm, and your feet still shivery!  It’s no wonder, for they were ice itself when they brought you in.”

With dexterous fingers the hot-water bag was withdrawn from the foot of the bed and Mother McNeil was out of the room.  Back again, she slipped it close to his feet, tucked in the covering, patted the pillows, and, lowering the light, turned to leave the room.  At the door she stopped.

“Is there anything you’re needing, my son—­anything I can do for you?”

For a moment there was silence, broken only by the ticking of a tiny clock on the mantel, then Van Landing spoke.

“Yes.”  His voice was boyishly low.  “Will you ask Miss Barbour if I may see her to-morrow before she goes out?  I must see her.”

“Of course I will.  And you can tell her how it happened that you were right near our door when you fell, and you didn’t even know she was in town.  Very few of her up-town friends know.  There wasn’t time for both up-town and down-town, and there were things she wanted to find out.  She tells me you are an old friend, and I’m glad you’ve come across each other again.  It pleases some folks to believe in chance, but I get more comfort thinking God has His own way.  Good night, Mr. Van Landing.  Good dreams—­good dreams!”

The door was closed softly, and under the bedclothes Van Landing again buried his face in the pillows, and his lips twitched.  Chance—­was it chance or was it God?  If only God would give him a chance!