“Never mind about money,” rejoined Bronson, turning to go.

Lane could learn little from Rose.  Questions seemed to make her shrink, so Lane refrained from them and tried to cheer her.  The landlady had taken a sudden liking to Lane which evinced itself in her change of attitude toward Rose, and she was communicative.  She informed Lane that the girl had been there about two months; that her father had made her work till she dropped.  Old Clymer had often brought men to the hotel to drink and gamble, and to the girl’s credit she had avoided them.

For several days Doctor Bronson came twice daily to see Rose.  He made little comment upon her condition, except to state that she had developed peritonitis, and he was not hopeful.  Soon Rose took a turn for the worse.  The doctor came to Lane’s room and told him the girl would not have the strength to go through with her ordeal.  Lane was so shocked he could not speak.  Dr. Bronson’s shoulders sagged a little, an unusual thing for him.  “I’m sorry, Daren,” he said.  “I know you wanted to help the poor girl out of this.  But too late.  I can ease her pain, and that’s all.”

Strangely shaken and frightened Lane lay down in the dark.  The partition between his room and Rose’s might as well have been paper for all the sound it deadened.  He could have escaped that, but he wanted to be near her....  And he listened to Rose’s moans in the darkness.  Lane shuddered there, helpless, suffering, realizing.  Then the foreboding silence became more dreadful than any sound....  It was terrible for Lane.  That strange cold knot in his breast, that coil of panic, seemed to spring and tear, quivering through all his body.  What had he known of torture, of sacrifice, of divine selflessness?  He understood now how the loved and guarded woman went down into the Valley of the Shadow for the sake of a man.  Likewise, he knew the infinite tragedy of a ruined girl who lay in agony, gripped by relentless nature.

Lane was called into the hall by Mrs. O’Brien.  She was weeping.  Bronson met him at the door.

“She’s dying,” he whispered.  “You’d better come in.  I’ve ’phoned to Doctor Wallace.”

Lane went in, almost blinded.  The light seemed dim.  Yet he saw Rose with a luminous glow radiating from her white face.

“I feel—­so light,” she said, with a wan smile.

Lane sat by the bed, but he could not speak.  The moments dragged.  He had a feeling of their slow but remorseless certainty.

Then there were soft steps outside—­Mrs. O’Brien opened the door—­and Doctor Wallace entered the room.

“My child,” he gravely began, bending over her.

Rose’s big eyes with their strained questioning gaze sought his face and Doctor Bronson’s and Lane’s.

“Rose—­are you—­in pain?”

“The burning’s gone,” she said.

“My child,” began Doctor Wallace, again.  “Your pain is almost over.  Will you not pray with me?”