The girl’s lips moved.  “Arthur!  Arthur! . . .  Arthur’s ship!” A deep sigh.  She clenched her hands.  “He is coming?” Hilda nodded and smiled, holding her breath with suspense.

“Up the Channel now.  He will be at Southampton tonight.  Arthur . . . at Southampton.  It is here, in the papers; I have telegraphed to him to hurry on at once to see you.”

She struggled up for a second.  A smile flitted across the worn face.  Then she fell back wearily.

I thought all was over.  Her eyes stared white.  But ten minutes later she opened her lids again.  “Arthur is coming,” she murmured.  “Arthur . . . coming.”

“Yes, dear.  Now sleep.  He is coming.”

All through that day and the next night she was restless and agitated; but still her pulse improved a little.  Next morning she was again a trifle better.  Temperature falling—­a hundred and one, point three.  At ten o’clock Hilda came in to her, radiant.

“Well, Isabel, dear,” she cried, bending down and touching her cheek (kissing is forbidden by the rules of the house), “Arthur has come.  He is here . . . down below . . .  I have seen him.”

“Seen him!” the girl gasped.

“Yes, seen him.  Talked with him.  Such a nice, manly fellow; and such an honest, good face!  He is longing for you to get well.  He says he has come home this time to marry you.”

The wan lips quivered.  “He will never marry me!”

“Yes, yes, he will—­if you will take this jelly.  Look here—­he wrote these words to you before my very eyes:  ’Dear love to my Isa!’ . . .  If you are good, and will sleep, he may see you—­ to-morrow.”

The girl opened her lips and ate the jelly greedily.  She ate as much as she was desired.  In three minutes more her head had fallen like a child’s upon her pillow and she was sleeping peacefully.

I went up to Sebastian’s room, quite excited with the news.  He was busy among his bacilli.  They were his hobby, his pets.  “Well, what do you think, Professor?” I cried.  “That patient of Nurse Wade’s—­”

He gazed up at me abstractedly, his brow contracting.  “Yes, yes; I know,” he interrupted.  “The girl in Fourteen.  I have discounted her case long ago.  She has ceased to interest me. . . .  Dead, of course!  Nothing else was possible.”

I laughed a quick little laugh of triumph.  “No, sir; not dead.  Recovering!  She has fallen just now into a normal sleep; her breathing is natural.”

He wheeled his revolving chair away from the germs and fixed me with his keen eyes.  “Recovering?” he echoed.  “Impossible!  Rallying, you mean.  A mere flicker.  I know my trade.  She must die this evening.”

“Forgive my persistence,” I replied; “but—­her temperature has gone down to ninety-nine and a trifle.”

He pushed away the bacilli in the nearest watch-glass quite angrily.  “To ninety-nine!” he exclaimed, knitting his brows.  “Cumberledge, this is disgraceful!  A most disappointing case!  A most provoking patient!”