With Dorothy clinging to his hand, Marcus Gard watched the door of Mrs. Marteen’s library with an ever-growing anxiety.  Only the presence of the child, who clasped his hand in such fear and grief, kept him from giving way.  The long reign of terror that had dragged his heart and mind to the very edge of martyrdom had worn thin his already exhausted nerves, and now—­now that the lost was found again, it was to learn by what a slender thread of life they held her with them.

Every moment he could spare from the demands of his responsibilities was spent in close companionship with Dorothy in the house where only the sound of soft-footed nurses, the clink of a spoon in a medicine glass or the tread of the doctor mounting the stairs broke the waiting silence.  For many days she had not known them.  Now came intervals of consciousness and coherence, but weakness so great that the two anxious watchers, unused to illness, were appalled by the change it wrought.  Now for the twentieth time they sat longing for and yet fearing the moment when Dr. Balys, with his friendly eyes and grim mouth, would enter to them with the tale of his last visit and his hopes or fears for the next.

The lamps were lighted, the shades drawn; the fire crackled quietly on the hearth.  The room was filled with the familiar perfume of violets, for Dorothy, true to her mother’s custom, kept every vase filled with them.

Silently Gard patted the little cold hand in his, as the sound of approaching footsteps warned them of the doctor’s coming.  In silence they saw the door open, and welcomed with a throb of relief the smile on the physician’s face.

“A great, a very great improvement,” he said quickly, in answer to Dorothy’s supplicating eyes.  “Quite wonderful.  She is a woman of such extraordinary character that, once conscious, we can count on her own great will to save the day for us—­and to-morrow you shall both see her.  To-night, little girl, you may go in and kiss her, very quietly—­not a word, you know.  Just a kiss and go.”

“Now?” whispered Dorothy, as if she were already in the sick room.  “May I go now?”

“Yes.  No tears, you know, and no huggings—­just one little kiss—­and then come back here.”

Dorothy flew from the room, light and soundless as blown thistledown.  The doctor turned to his friend.

“There is something troubling her,” he said gravely, “something that is eating at her heart.  Ordinarily I wouldn’t consent to anyone seeing her so soon; but she called for you in her delirium; and now that she is conscious, she whispers that she must consult you.  Perhaps you can relieve her trouble, whatever it is.  I’m going to chance it; after Dorothy has seen her, you may.  I don’t know exactly what to say, but—­well, answer the question in her eyes, if you can—­but only a moment—­only give her relief.  She must have no excitement.”

Gard nodded.

“I think I know,” he said slowly.