The physician’s silence encouraged her to continue.  The history that he gleaned from Cindy’s disordered monologue was an old one, of illusion, wilfulness, disaster, cruelty and pride.  Standing out from the blurred panorama of her gabble were little clear pictures—­an ideal home in the far South; a quickly repented marriage; an unhappy season, full of wrongs and abuse, and, of late, an inheritance of money that promised deliverance; its seizure and waste by the dog-wolf during a two months’ absence, and his return in the midst of a scandalous carouse.  Unobtruded, but visible between every line, ran a pure white thread through the smudged warp of the story—­the simple, all-enduring, sublime love of the old negress, following her mistress unswervingly through everything to the end.

When at last she paused, the physician spoke, asking if the house contained whiskey or liquor of any sort.  There was, the old woman informed him, half a bottle of brandy left in the sideboard by the dog-wolf.

“Prepare a toddy as I told you,” said Doctor James.  “Wake your mistress; have her drink it, and tell her what has happened.”

Some ten minutes afterward, Mrs. Chandler entered, supported by old Cindy’s arm.  She appeared to be a little stronger since her sleep and the stimulant she had taken.  Doctor James had covered, with a sheet, the form upon the bed.

The lady turned her mournful eyes once, with a half-frightened look, toward it, and pressed closer to her loyal protector.  Her eyes were dry and bright.  Sorrow seemed to have done its utmost with her.  The fount of tears was dried; feeling itself paralyzed.

Doctor James was standing near the table, his overcoat donned, his hat and medicine case in his hand.  His face was calm and impassive—­practice had inured him to the sight of human suffering.  His lambent brown eyes alone expressed a discreet professional sympathy.

He spoke kindly and briefly, stating that, as the hour was late, and assistance, no doubt, difficult to procure, he would himself send the proper persons to attend to the necessary finalities.

“One matter, in conclusion,” said the doctor, pointing to the safe with its still wide-open door.  “Your husband, Mrs. Chandler, toward the end, felt that he could not live; and directed me to open that safe, giving me the number upon which the combination is set.  In case you may need to use it, you will remember that the number is forty-one.  Turn several times to the right; then to the left once; stop at forty-one.  He would not permit me to waken you, though he knew the end was near.

“In that safe he said he had placed a sum of money—­not large—­but enough to enable you to carry out his last request.  That was that you should return to your old home, and, in after days, when time shall have made it easier, forgive his many sins against you.”

He pointed to the table, where lay an orderly pile of banknotes, surmounted by two stacks of gold coins.