The return of Dr. Page with a nurse cut short these painful yet engrossing speculations.  His offensive manner appeared to have exhausted itself, but he proceeded to install his companion in Wilbur’s room.  Selma would have liked to turn her out of the house, but realized that she could not run the risk of taking issue with him at a time when her husband’s life might be in danger.  With an injured air yet in silence she beheld the deliberate yet swift preparations.  Once or twice Dr. Page asked her to procure for him some article or appliance likely to be in the house, speaking with a crisp, business-like preoccupation which virtually ignored her existence, yet was free from offence.  His soul evidently was absorbed by his patient, whom he observed with alert watchfulness, issuing brief directions now and then to his white-capped, methodical, and noiseless assistant.  Selma sat with her hands before her in a corner of the bed-room, practically ignored.  The shadows deepened and a maid announced dinner.  Dr. Page looked at his watch.

“I shall pass the night here,” he said.

“Is he worse?”

“The disease is making progress and must run its course.  This is only the beginning.  You should eat your dinner, for you will need your strength,” he added with simple graciousness.

“But I am doing nothing,” she blurted.

“If there is anything you can do I will let you know.”

Their eyes met.  His were gray and steady, but kind.  She felt that he chose to treat her like a child, yet that he was trying to be considerate.  She was galled, but after all, he was the doctor, and Wilbur had the utmost confidence in him, so she must submit.  She ate her dinner, and when she returned preparations were being made for the night.  The nurse was to use a lounge at the foot of Wilbur’s bed.  Dr. Page asked permission to occupy the dressing-room adjoining, so as to be within easy call.  He established himself there with a book, returning at short intervals to look at his patient.  Selma had resumed her seat.  It was dark save for a night lamp.  In the stillness the only sounds were the ticking of the clock on the mantel-piece and Wilbur’s labored breathing.  It seemed as though he were struggling for his life.  What should she do if he died?  Why was she debarred from tending him?  It was cruel.  Tears fell on her hand.  She stared into the darkness, twisting her fingers, until at last, as though to show her independence, she stepped to the bed on tip-toe.  Wilbur’s eyes were open.  He put out his hand, and, taking hers, touched it to his burning lips.

“Good-night, Selma,” he murmured.

She stooped and kissed his brow.  “I am here beside you, Wilbur.”

A figure stood behind her.  She turned, expecting to encounter the white-capped sentinel.  It was Dr. Page.  He touched her gently on the arm.  “We must let him rest now.  You can do no good.  Won’t you go to bed?”