Philip's physical condition had improved during six weeks of masterful nursing. Isabel was at last permitted to see him for ten short minutes; then she kept her promise and went from the room. This morning she sank into a chair, mutely listening to the doctor's voice.

"He has come out much better than I expected," he confessed. "Our nurses have left nothing undone. The patient has responded to the limit of his burned-down condition. We shall save him."

She lifted a face wet with tears. "Oh," she begged, "may I help—do some little thing? I have waited so long. It has been hard, hard, to see other women always at his side, when his wife might not even give him a glass of water."

Rebellion which she had hidden through past days burst forth. "May I not let one of the nurses go? I long to do my natural part."

Dr. Judkin stopped pacing. "Listen to me," he commanded. She braced herself for fresh disappointment, knowing well the superior wisdom of the man's despotic practice. "Listen!" he repeated. "You have already done what few women can do—submitted magnificently to a passive part. And you have helped me more than you will ever know." She felt a new demand back of his words. "Now is the crucial test of your will power. I have been waiting anxiously for this particular point in your husband's case. The physical collapse has been arrested and he is now ready for a complete change of scene. He needs a sea voyage, with continued quiet, but nothing familiar to arouse consciousness of past events."

"Oh," she cried, "I may take him abroad? Perhaps to Japan? I can go to any part of the world which you think best for him." Her voice rang joy. Color ran into her cheeks. "You have been so good to me—so patient with my own impatience. And I knew that you could save him! Something told me that first awful morning that you would help me, that you would be my friend."

The doctor stood powerless to tell her his real decision. Through weeks he had felt the passionate suffering beneath her well-bred composure. Character had stilled her bursting heart. He frowned, looking down at a pattern in the rug.

"You have not quite understood me," he said at last. "The change of which I speak must be absolute, entirely outside of—of—tempting association. As yet the patient must sink reviving interest in life to the dead level of his nurse, to the advent of meals served on the deck of a quiet ship."

"You mean that I should engage a private yacht?" Isabel eagerly asked. "I know of one owned by a friend who will let me have it. Shall I wire at once?"

Again the man by her side was baffled. Of late his brusque announcements had perceptibly softened. To-day, knowing as only a physician does, the tragedy of certain marital relations, this woman's great love rebuked his ruthless plan. Still he must speak, make a professional edict clear. "But you are not to accompany your husband," he abruptly told her. "You might undo the work of weeks, make the patient's ultimate recovery doubtful."

His words came hard, plain. Isabel sat stunned and silent.

"Philip Barry will come back from his voyage another man," the doctor deliberately promised. "And the separation will not be as hard as it now seems. After the fight for your husband's life and reason you may feel that we are about to conquer. Tahiti—the isle of rest—will restore him wholly."

Isabel did not answer. Only tightly clasped hands betrayed her agitation. The doctor went on:

"I have taken the voyage to Tahiti myself. Five years ago I was a nervous wreck when I sailed from San Francisco. Twenty-one days later, when I landed at the Society Islands, at Tahiti, I was a new man. Weeks on the water, without a word from the world behind me had worked a miracle. On the upper deck of the comfortable little ship I forgot my troubles through pure joy of existence. All day long I rested body and brain. With evening the blood-red sun plunged into a molten sea. Then blue sky suddenly changed to violet, and deepening shadow brought out the stars—the Southern Cross. I began to feel like a different person."

An eloquent outburst awakened no response. The doctor saw that he must speak decidedly. His next words fell with brutal authority.

"Your husband must be made ready to start for San Francisco at once. A boat leaves Port Los Angeles day after to-morrow. It is best that our patient should avoid the train, and in going by water he will have half a day and a night to rest in some good hotel. The ship sails at noon,—on the seventeenth."

He was beginning to think that Mrs. Barry's silence meant compliance. Resignation seemed to be a part of her marvelous character. And at last she unclasped her hands, pressing them before her eyes. But he heard her gently sobbing.

"Don't!" he humbly entreated. "You must not forget what I have promised. You shall have your husband back—well! He will put all behind him! forget everything but his wife."

She did not answer. Dr. Judkin waited until her hands left her eyes. Then she began to speak with fresh determination.

"Why can I not go too? on the same boat, just to be near him in case he needs me. I should not let him know that I was on board, not make even a sign,—unless—he missed me. Oh! let me go with him. It is not fair that another woman should have my place—my absolute right to be near him. He is my husband! I cannot bear it."

Tempered passion could no longer conceal her feeling. She was blazing with jealous rebellion. For the time being the nurse who had given satisfaction was an enemy—a woman usurping the place of Philip's wife. Yet the specialist knew that she would submit. She loved too perfectly to withstand reason. Suddenly he saw his way out of a tense situation.

"I had forgotten to tell you," he interrupted, "I am going to send my assistant, Dr. Ward. Our patient is so much better that it seems to be time for an absolute change, even in regard to his nurse. When Philip Barry returns he will be another man. Dr. Ward is the best of company, a splendid fellow, with rare common sense." He saw her tremble. "We will engage a special ship steward to assist, and everything shall be done for your husband's comfort."

Her face lifted like a smitten flower. The blaze in her eyes subsided. She looked into the doctor's face as a conquered child. "I have been very weak—very unreasonable," she faltered. "Now I will do everything that you think best,—make you no more trouble." She tried to laugh. "I am going to be good,—good like Reg."

"Then we shall get out of the woods," he answered. "And mind—you are not to grow thin while Philip Barry grows fat in Tahiti. If you are really going to be good you must relax, put away anxiety. When Philip comes home he must see you in the height of bloom. I first want you to go to bed at least for a week. Then you may take to the saddle, cultivate friends, enjoy yourself as every one should in God's country—in springtime."

To-day Dr. Judkin seemed pleased with the world. His patient was more than promising, while Mrs. Barry appealed to him irresistibly. He put out his hand, doggedly determined to save her husband. "Keep a brave heart," he prescribed, "everything is now going our way."

But once outside he asked himself if courage such as Isabel's deserved the test of possible disappointment. What, after all, must be the outcome of Philip Barry's recovery? Would he realize fresh obligation to a woman's almost divine love? Would he be able to put out of his own life withering emotions of regret? Dr. Judkin had not known his patient before the total collapse of weeks back, and he could not consistently answer hard questions. To vouch for the man's future behavior was, after all, impossible; and yet, he had just promised Isabel to save him for years to come. The futility of finite judgment, the mistakes of theoretical practice, the guesswork involved in a case such as Barry's, tempered the specialist's confidence. He went flying on his way depressed. Then he remembered that Isabel seemed to be an absolute exception to many of the wives belonging to her apparently enviable station. She gave out for joy of giving. Love such as hers refused to be measured by modern standards or a husband's limitations.