Then Horace Clay, the man with a man’s mistakes, his fears, his heart-burnings, was gone, and in his place stood Horace Clay, the doctor, keen, alert, masterful, indomitable, with the look of battle on his face.  He worked rapidly, never faltering; his eyes burning with the joy of the true physician who fights to save, to save a human life from the grim old enemy, Death.

“You have saved his life, Pearl,” the doctor said two hours later.  Arthur lay sleeping easily, the flush gone from his face, and his breath coming regularly.

The doctor put his hand gently on her tumbled little brown head.

“You saved him from death, Pearl, and me—­from something worse.”

And then Pearl took the doctor’s hand in both of hers, and kissed it reverently.

“That’s for Thursa,” she said, gravely.

Tom was awakened by some one shaking him gently.

“Tom, Tom Motherwell, what are you doing here?”

A woman knelt beside him; her eyes were sweet and kind and sad beyond expression.

“Tom, how did you come here?” she asked, gently, as Tom struggled to rise.

He sat up, staring stupidly around him.  “Wha’ ’s a matter?  Where’s this?” he asked thickly.

“You’re in the sitting-room at the hotel,” she said.  He would have lain down again, but she took him firmly by the arm.

“Come Tom,” she said.  “Come and have a drink of water.”

She led him out of the hotel to the pump at the corner of the street.  Tom drank thirstily.  She pumped water on his hands, and bathed his burning face in it.  The cold water and the fresh air began to clear his brain.

“What time is it?” he asked her.

“Nearly morning,” she said.  “About half-past three, I think,” and Tom knew even in the darkness that she had lost more teeth.  It was Mrs. Skinner.

“Tom,” she said, “did you see Skinner in there?  I came down to get him—­I want him—­the child is dead an hour ago.”  She spoke hurriedly.

Tom remembered now.  Yes, he had seen Skinner, but not lately; it was a long, long time ago.

“Now Tom, go home,” she said kindly.  “This is bad work for you, my dear boy.  Stop it now, dear Tom, while you can.  It will kill you, body and soul.”

A thought struggled in Tom’s dull brain.  There was something he wanted to say to her which must be said; but she was gone.

He drank again from the cup that hung beside the pump.  Where did he get this burning thirst, and his head, how it pounded!  She had told him to go home.  Well, why wasn’t he at home?  What was he doing here?

Slowly his memory came back—­he had come for the doctor; and the doctor was to be back in an hour, and now it was nearly morning, didn’t she say?

He tried to run, but his knees failed him—­what about Arthur?  He grew chill at the thought—­he might be dead by this time.

He reached the doctor’s office some way.  His head still throbbed and his feet were heavy as lead; but his mind was clear.