But the doctor, bending over her, despite his reassuring smile and light badinage, realized with alarm that his patient was in great danger, that there was but a fighting chance for her life.
An hour or more he worked over her unceasingly, doing everything that skill and science could suggest.
With the dawning of the morning he would know whether she would live or die.
"Doctor," she said, looking up into his face, "do you think my illness is fatal? Is this my last call?"
He scarcely knew how to answer her. He felt that the truth should not be kept from her. But how was he to tell her?
"Because," she went on, before he could answer, "if it is, I had better know it in time, in order to settle up my affairs. I—I have always dreaded making a will; but—but there will come a time, sooner or later, when it will be necessary for me to do so."
Again Doctor Gardiner laughed out that hearty, reassuring laugh.
"That is the natural feeling of a woman," he said. "Men never have that feeling. With them it is but an ordinary matter, as it should be."
"Would you advise me to make a will, doctor?" and the white face was turned wistfully to him.
"Certainly," he replied, with an attempt at light-heartedness. "It will occupy your mind, give you something to think about, and take your thoughts from your fancied aches and pains."