“Yes,” March admitted.  “It’s terrible to think how unnecessary even the best and wisest of us is to the purposes of Providence.  When I looked at that poor young fellow’s face sometimes—­so gentle and true and pure—­I used to think the world was appreciably richer for his being in it.  But are we appreciably poorer for his being out of it now?”

“No, I don’t reckon we are,” said Fulkerson.  “And what a lot of the raw material of all kinds the Almighty must have, to waste us the way He seems to do.  Think of throwing away a precious creature like Coonrod Dryfoos on one chance in a thousand of getting that old fool of a Lindau out of the way of being clubbed!  For I suppose that was what Coonrod was up to.  Say!  Have you been round to see Lindau to-day?”

Something in the tone or the manner of Fulkerson startled March.  “No!  I haven’t seen him since yesterday.”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Fulkerson.  “I guess I saw him a little while after you did, and that young doctor there seemed to feel kind of worried about him.

“Or not worried, exactly; they can’t afford to let such things worry them, I suppose; but—­”

“He’s worse?” asked March.

“Oh, he didn’t say so.  But I just wondered if you’d seen him to-day.”

“I think I’ll go now,” said March, with a pang at heart.  He had gone every day to see Lindau, but this day he had thought he would not go, and that was why his heart smote him.  He knew that if he were in Lindau’s place Lindau would never have left his side if he could have helped it.  March tried to believe that the case was the same, as it stood now; it seemed to him that he was always going to or from the hospital; he said to himself that it must do Lindau harm to be visited so much.  But he knew that this was not true when he was met at the door of the ward where Lindau lay by the young doctor, who had come to feel a personal interest in March’s interest in Lindau.

He smiled without gayety, and said, “He’s just going.”

“What!  Discharged?”

“Oh no.  He has been failing very fast since you saw him yesterday, and now—­” They had been walking softly and talking softly down the aisle between the long rows of beds.  “Would you care to see him?”

The doctor made a slight gesture toward the white canvas screen which in such places forms the death-chamber of the poor and friendless.  “Come round this way—­he won’t know you!  I’ve got rather fond of the poor old fellow.  He wouldn’t have a clergyman—­sort of agnostic, isn’t he?  A good many of these Germans are—­but the young lady who’s been coming to see him—­”

They both stopped.  Lindau’s grand, patriarchal head, foreshortened to their view, lay white upon the pillow, and his broad, white beard flowed upon the sheet, which heaved with those long last breaths.  Beside his bed Margaret Vance was kneeling; her veil was thrown back, and her face was lifted; she held clasped between her hands the hand of the dying man; she moved her lips inaudibly.