It was eleven o'clock, or after, when I sat beside a roaring fire of recently renewed backlogs debating whether I should sleep upon the couch pulled close beside the fireplace, or bundle up and face the cold for five blocks to my home. I had arisen and was drawing the lounge toward the hearth when, again, after a crunching of the snow outside, there came a timid knock on the door. I opened to find a shivering, bent old man upon the threshold whom I recognized straightway as the servant at the old home of the many pillars. He hurriedly informed me in his cracked and high-pitched voice that I was wanted at once by Monsieur l'AbbÉ Picot, who was ill.

Ten minutes later, upon entering the big cheerful library, I found the man whom I now thought of as St. Jacques of the Streets seated by the fire in a great armchair drawn close to the blaze. His closely cropped head was supported by a pillow, a decanter of wine sat on the table beside him, while Prosper, the old servant, stood by to anticipate any wish. I was shocked at the appearance of the AbbÉ. I had never before thought of him as little, yet now I saw him not only small, but emaciated. While his countenance was cheerful, yet suffering and deprivation had left their cruel stamp upon him. He seemed slight, worn, and world-weary. He was excessively nervous. A slight fever caused a hectic flush in his sunken, close-shaven cheeks, and lent a preternatural brilliancy to his eyes.

"You will pardon me, Monsieur Doctor," he said politely, yet in a voice which startled me because of a note which was familiar to my ear, "for calling you out into such a night as this, but Prosper," indicating his servant by a wave of the hand, "threatened to take matters upon himself and, knowing something of the nature of his blisters and nostrums, I consented to your being consulted. It is terrible weather to make a man leave comfortable quarters, and I'm sorry."

Of course I assured him of my readiness to attend him. I told him that I thought there was nothing too severe for one to do if it might bring him relief. Upon examination I discovered Monsieur Picot much worse off than he believed himself to be.... While I was not quite sure, desiring to see other developments before fully making up my mind, I felt that my patient was in for a battle the successful outcome of which was equal to about one chance in a hundred.

"First thing, Monsieur," I said, after taking his temperature, his pulse, looking at the tongue, and asking a multitude of questions, "you must go to bed immediately."

"For the night, you mean?" he questioned, with eyes searching penetratingly into mine.

"For several days, Monsieur. It is absolutely necessary," I added, anticipating trouble upon that score.

With a shrug of his shoulders he threw up his hands, a thing which I had seen Jean FranÇois do a thousand times, with protest upon every feature. Then, appearing to suddenly lose courage, he gave up, letting his hands drop limply into his lap.

"Mon Dieu! If I must, I must.... Prosper, assist me."

We helped him into the adjoining bedroom and into the big four poster. He sank back among the pillows with an air of utter weariness. By a strong will he had kept himself up and about. He had exerted every power at his command to conquer his growing weakness. He had hoped to win and had determined, as a last resort, that stimulants and medicine would save the day. Then, when he discovered it to be beyond his strength, he surrendered completely. I looked into his face, outlined against the whiteness of the linen, and for the first time noticed that he appeared old. As aged as old Prosper himself, whose alarmed countenance stared questioningly at me upon every turn.

I prepared his medicine and yelled the directions into Prosper's deaf ears. Then I placed a chair by the bed and sat down, taking a thin fevered hand into my own.

"My friend," said I to the AbbÉ, "you must be very quiet. You need rest. A few weeks of peace and good food should start you well on toward recovery."

"One moment, Monsieur Doctor," said he with a weary gesture of the hand, "I've a request."

"Certainly. What is it?" I asked.

"Do you think I shall be ill for any length of time?"

"I shall know more about that to-morrow," was the reply.

"Yes, I know," he smiled. "But remember that I am not a child. I'm an old man—at least I feel it—and life is not as alluring as it was once. Tell me frankly, shall I be very sick?"

"It is more than likely, Monsieur," I answered.

"More than likely—more than likely," he repeated reflectively, "and who knows save the good God—and who knows?"

Here he ceased to talk, closed his eyes restfully, and became more quiet. For an hour I sat and watched him. Had it not been for an occasional pressure of his fingers in my hand I should have thought him asleep. Finally he opened his eyes and with childlike sympathy sought mine.

"Monsieur Doctor," he said, "I have not yet made the request."

"O," I said with surprise. I had thought it referred to the duration of his illness.

"You say I shall die?" he said.

"No, I have not said so," I answered.

"Very well. We'll not discuss it. No matter.... But the request.... On my desk you will find an envelope upon which is the address of a dealer in horses in the city of New Orleans. Inside the envelope is three hundred dollars. It will be enough, I am sure.... That sum should pay a passage to New Orleans and return and buy a little mare, should it not, Monsieur?"

"It would be more than enough," I replied, puzzled.

"It is asking a great deal of you, Monsieur," he said with hesitancy.

"It is nothing.... Nothing would be too much," and I pressed the hand of the little St. Jacques in sympathy. I was beginning to understand.

"Thank you," he continued gratefully. "If—if I should die, Monsieur, would it be asking too much of you to go to that city and inquire of the dealer for the little mare left with him last twenty-fourth of December by the AbbÉ Picot? He will remember, and he promised me to keep her at my disposal for three months. Buy her from him, Monsieur, and bring her back here with you. She is a part of this estate and my will gives her into hands that love.... Would this be asking too much, Monsieur Doctor? It is a great deal."

"It shall be done," I assured him.

This was the nearest he ever came to telling anything to confirm the words of the Captain concerning the service which he gave his brothers of the south.

It was well into the morning when I arose to leave. After repeating directions to Prosper about the medicine and the temperature of the room, I went to his bed, for he was not asleep.

"I shall call about noon," I said, "and hope to find you better."

"My friend," said he rather abruptly, "if I should need a nurse other than old Prosper, whom would you likely get for me?"

"I scarcely know," I answered. "You will need someone. Prosper has not the strength to give you constant attention.... Perhaps Miss Gwyn might help. She has often nursed cases for me. Living just across the street, I do not see why she would not at least run in now and then."

"Ah," he sighed with evident relief. "Could you—do you suppose she would come to-morrow? You see," he said with eagerness, "I may become too ill before long to tell her about the house. Prosper, you know, is such a deaf old curmudgeon. He's good enough. Do not think I do not love Prosper.... But do you think she would come?"

"I am sure she will come," I answered. "Especially if it is your request."

"I thank you. I think I should like it very much indeed to have her occasionally in to see me.... Good-night, Monsieur Doctor.... You are very kind."

Again he sank restfully into his pillows.

I waited for a moment by the library fire before wrapping myself securely against the cold. The wind roared in merciless gusts through the trees. The old house cracked and moaned as if shaken to the foundation by the blast. Just before stepping out into the night, I glanced through the half-open door at the children's little St. Jacques. He himself was sleeping as peacefully as a child.