He came and found his patient better. He opened his eyes and smiled. Collapse had gone, the following fever had laid hold on him. Would his heart stand it? All that day he lay in something like sleep--quiet, so long as his hand could find that other hand. Once or twice she caught a whispered word of command and once, urgent, came a call for reinforcements. His mind was at battle--far, far from her. About an hour before sunset he turned his head and looked at her.
"I've done it," he said faintly; "I've done it!"
The doctor came in many a time and oft. The orderlies were always doing something; but her part was to hold his hand until the last. She saw it coming clearly; she knew that it must be so.
Someone in the arbour suggested a clergyman, and they sent to fetch one.
"He will be too late," half-whispered a voice.
Was it hers? Too late! As if it mattered? As if He who made----
Hark! A bird singing. It had come in after the fruit--perhaps he had fed it, for he loved God's creatures--and now not five yards from where he lay it was giving its heart out in full-throated song.
Hush! Listen! Listen!--it seemed to say.
The still figure was growing more still.
The slow breathing grew slower.