“Is the woman mad with vanity,” said Francie, in hot indignation, “to send him her trash at such a time as this?”

Maurice laughed; it was not often that the gentle Francie was so vehement.

“Why, Francie, it was the best she could do,” he said; “for when he is able to read it will send him to sleep.”

He was still turning over the leaves of the first volume.

“Oh, look here,” he cried.  “Here is the dedication:  ’To Octavius Quirk, Esq., M.A., in sincere gratitude for much kindly help and encouragement.’  Now, that is very indiscreet.  The log-rollers don’t like books being dedicated to them; it draws the attention of the public and exposes the game.  Ah, well, not many members of the public will see that dedication!”

A great change, however, was now imminent.  Saying as little as possible—­indeed, making all kinds of evasions and excuses, so as not to alarm the women-folk—­old Dr. Moore intimated that he thought it advisable he should sit up this night with Lionel; and Maurice, though he promised Francie he would go home as soon as she and the old lady had left, was too restless to keep his word.  They feared, they hoped—­they knew not what.  Would the exhausted system hold out any longer against the wasting ravages of this fell disease, or succumb and sink into coma and death?  Or would Nature herself step in, and with her gentle fingers close the tired eyes and bring restoring sleep and calm?  Maurice meant to go home, but could not.  First of all, he stayed late.  Then, when the nurse came down, she was bidden to go back to bed again, if she liked.  Hour after hour passed.  He threw himself on the sofa, but it was not to close his eyes.  And yet all seemed going well in the sick-room.  Both the doctor and he had convinced themselves that Lionel was now asleep—­no lethargic stupor this time, but actual sleep, from which everything was to be hoped.  Maurice would not speak; he wrote on slips of paper when he had anything to say.  And so the long night went by, until the window-panes slowly changed from black to blue, and from blue to gray.

About eight o’clock in the morning the old doctor came out of the room, and Maurice knew in a moment the nature of his tidings.

“All is going well,” he whispered.  “The temperature is steadily decreasing—­nearly three degrees since last night—­and he is now in a profound sleep; the crisis is over, and happily over, as I imagine.  I’m going along to tell his mother and Francie—­and to go to bed for a bit.”

And Maurice?  Well, here was the nurse; he was not wanted; he was a good-natured sort of person and he had seen how patiently and faithfully Nina had concealed her grief and done mutely everything they wanted of her.  A few minutes’ drive in a hansom would take him down to Sloane Street; the fresh air would be pleasant—­for his head felt stupefied for want of rest; and why should not Nina have this glad intelligence at the first possible