Stephen woke from unconsciousness to incredible sensations of nausea and weakness and pain. In his mind two convictions alternated; the first that he was an enormous body which no room could contain; the second that he had no body whatever, that all flesh had been removed from his bones by some terrible process. Gradually all the indefinable pain and terror concentrated in his left side.

As consciousness quickened he realized that he was not at home, but in a strange bed in a strange room, and that a strange woman in a white dress sat beside him. Slowly he accounted for his presence in this place, confusing, however, in spite of the pain, his right hand with his left. It was his right hand, he believed, which he had hurt. He tried for a long time to lift it and succeeded at last in bringing it with a feeble jerk within his area of vision. It was still there and he could see no change in it. He gave a long sigh and recognized Miss Knowlton's blue eyes looking at him from a white face. After gazing at her steadfastly he brought out a few foolish words.

"Your—mouth—is—twisted."

Miss Knowlton's mouth was twisted. She yearned to be of heroic service and at the same time she desperately hoped for the return of Dr. Salter. She had sat often by the bedsides of reviving women who had to be told that no living joy had come from hours of purgatory; and it was after many experiences of this sort that she had become an attendant in a doctor's office. She waited for Stephen's return to consciousness with even more frightful apprehensions.

Another hour passed and she was still sitting in the same place, when the first numbing suspicion of the truth dawned upon Stephen. If his hand was there and sound, why this agony in his other shoulder? He turned his unpillowed head slowly and looked down, but the covers hid his body. He tried to lift his left hand as he had lifted his right, but he could not move it. It was doubtless tightly bandaged; it was necessary in such cases to be thorough and Salter and his assistants cut deep. He closed his eyes to shut out thought.

But thought was not to be permanently shut out. With a sudden impulse he reached across his body, but he reached vaguely and met only Miss Knowlton's strong grasp.

"I'd try to lie perfectly still," she advised earnestly.

He left his hand in hers. It was comfortable to feel a human touch and it suited a cunning plan to pretend to yield. Her mouth twisted again, but he made no comment upon it. He closed his eyes and after a while withdrew his hand gently and slipped it back under the covers. Miss Knowlton had an eagle eye and he must move with caution. He smiled feebly—she furthered his scheme by drawing up the covers to his neck. He moved his hand little by little, and touched with the tips of his fingers after long and exhausting effort his left shoulder.

His first emotion was, incongruously, one of amusement.

"They've taken it off," he said aloud as though his circumvention of watchfulness was the only important fact.

Miss Knowlton ignored his cleverness. "I'd try to get to sleep now." In the effort to prevent her lips from twisting she looked at him with a threatening gaze. If Dr. Salter would only come! Suddenly he caught her hand and held it in a weak and desperate grip. She closed both her own upon it.

"Did they take it off?"

Denial was useless.

"Yes, Doctor."

"At the shoulder?"

"Yes." She lifted his hand and held it against her breast, then she bent over him and wiped away his tears. He turned his head, conscious of his ignominy, but she felt solemnly that she had lived through a great moment.

He slept a drugged sleep. In the morning he woke to consciousness as one wakes to bereavement; first a vague suspicion that all is not right, then full perception of the leaden weight from which there is to be henceforth no escape.

Dr. Salter repeated to him presently the opinions of his colleagues, their hesitation, their deep concern, their final agreement that delay would be fatal, and Stephen managed to answer gayly. Then he closed his eyes and Salter went away.

With returning strength came increasing activity of mind. He remembered the journey upon which he had set out and its interruption. He was uplifted no longer by the spirit of sacrifice; he felt only a sort of shamed humility. Some mighty power had mishandled him, and resistance was absurd. There were moments when he wept feebly.

He believed presently that he was going to die, and he tried to recollect a magic formula which had once comforted him, but which he could no longer remember. Miss Knowlton saw his knitted brows.

"Is there anything you want?"

"Do you know anything which begins 'I believe'?" No sooner were the words uttered than he realized that he had delivered himself to the tyranny of a sentimental piety.

Miss Knowlton, being a church woman, knew the Creed perfectly. Having concluded a glib recitation she began a psalm. Her mouth was once more awry, she believed that she had lived through a second great moment.

It was not until the fifth day that he thought of Ellen. At once a reviving flood filled his veins; he became impatient with his helplessness, with bandages, with feeding with a spoon, with the tender ministrations of over-solicitous nurses. He moved restlessly in his narrow bed. Ellen would be coming home—if she did not stay for the Senior festivities, she might be on her way now! But Fetzer was not at home and he was not there! He tried to reckon the time which had passed since he had written to her, but the problem was too difficult. When he saw her, everything would be right, everything; she would smile at him, she—

"Oh," he cried suddenly, "I am helpless, useless, weak, crippled!"

It was midnight and no one but Stephen himself was present at this first moment of full mental and physical consciousness. The various shocks through which Miss Knowlton had sustained him were slight compared with the cruel realization that life was over and done for, that even Hilda's death could not give him Ellen, that she was lost to him. He measured for the first time his love. Without his hope of Ellen he had nothing. He felt himself sinking deep into an abyss; he knew that body as well as soul was faint, he believed that death might be at hand.

Then suddenly an extraordinary experience was his; he seemed to grasp for an instant that solution of life for which he had struggled a week ago in fever and pain. He lay thinking intently in the quiet night. The door was closed, traffic on the street was for a short time suspended, the nurse did not return. His father had had all Stephen's youth in which to sow; now suddenly, warmed not by sunshine, but by the heat of pain, and watered by affliction, the seed bore fruit. Forlorn, maimed, broken in spirit, he remembered his father's teaching, he heard his father's voice describing again the wooing of that importunate Lover in whom he believed:

He remembered the Chestnut Ridge schoolhouse, filled after a mine explosion with weeping women and children; he recalled his father's prayers, their prayers. Even he had prayed and had been comforted!

The memory of boyhood became detailed; he was suddenly in the midst of an almost fatal experience. He had gone to swim in a deep mine hole and had become exhausted. Hanging over the edge of the bank was a branch of an old tree, and he had reached for it desperately without any expectation that it would sustain him, but it had proved firm and he had drawn himself slowly but safely out of the black water. He remembered the rough bark against his bare, shivering body, the heavenly consciousness of safety. He felt now a similar security, but it was of the soul.

On the seventh day Mayne came to visit him. He did not know exactly where to look, and with recourse to a physician's gesture, he laid his hand on Stephen's wrist. He glanced meaningly at the nurse, and she, returning his gaze with an understanding nod, departed.

"I have sad news for you, my boy," he said solemnly.

In a flash Stephen saw himself walking through carpeted corridors following the back of a Prince Albert coat.

"Well?"

"Hilda has passed on."

"When?"

"A week ago."

Then everything was over, even the poor body was put away. He felt for an instant more than an orthodox solemnity, a tenderness which bred tears; then misery sprang upon him like a beast from the jungle. If he had not gone on his journey northward, if he had waited a few pitiful days, he would not be lying here, done for! His slight color vanished, his hand trembled, the skin of his face quivered.

"What is it?" Mayne's hand went back to his wrist.

He began babbling his formula. He tried not to say it, but his weak tongue would not be controlled, and Mayne looked down upon him more embarrassed than he had ever been in his life. His philosophic good-humor furnished him with no panacea to offer this smitten creature, returning in feebleness of mind to some forgotten piety of his youth.

It seemed to Stephen after a few days that he could, if he were clever enough, get Ellen back. He still had periods of pain, but his brain now worked smoothly. She had an angel's heart. If he needed her before, he needed her doubly now. Her youth was only a small part of her; he needed her cheerfulness, her devotion, her enthusiasm. In exchange he would give her riches, travel to the ends of the earth, everything she could desire. He would not be tyrannical over her, but she must be his. When the fires of his soul burned lowest he promised her liberty and riches—if she served him till his death! The meditations of his midnight hour had not yet worked their complete work upon him.

But where was Ellen? To-morrow was the latest day upon which she could be expected. He was to have sat up, but he would postpone it another day because they would certainly not let him both sit up and see a visitor.

When she did not come, he grew restless. She had attended dances, she had mentioned the names of young men. The weakness of body which had kept him humble and quiet had vanished, physical strength intensified each emotion.

When another day passed, his restlessness became apparent to his nurse. He would have inquired of Miss Knowlton but he believed that she enjoyed prying into his soul and he feared some betraying expression. He asked for his letters and was allowed to look over them. Miss MacVane had attended to his business correspondence and now awaited eagerly his further pleasure. He cared nothing for business correspondence—here was a letter from Ellen, written two weeks ago from the University—Miss Knowlton helped him with the stiff paper.

"She ought to be coming along," he said, trying to keep his excitement out of his weak voice.

"She came to the house some days ago to inquire and went on to her brother's. She asked for you by telephone from there—at least some one called from Ephrata."

Stephen turned his head away. Miss Knowlton spoke as though Ellen's inquiry were unimportant. He was sharply irritated. She needn't think that Ellen would not come!

But only Ellen's letter came.

"She's sorry I am ill!" said Stephen to himself. He closed his eyes and Miss Knowlton thought that he was drowsy. She treated him now like a loved infant.

"Would you like to go sleepy by?"

Under his breath Stephen said, "Curses on the tribe!"

By leaving at this moment Miss Knowlton missed another great crisis.

"I shall send for Ellen," said a certain Stephen.

"You shall not send for her," said another Stephen. "She is young, lovely, she must be free."

"But I will."

"Oh, no, you won't! You are old, maimed, forlorn."

"But she'll come!"

"If you love her," the other whispered, "you will never let her come."

Miss Knowlton asked, presently, whether she should not answer Ellen, and he nodded, and turned away his face. It was surely not required that he prevent her from coming! His heart warmed to Miss Knowlton and he knew nothing of her kindly postscript. Her eyes were as sharp as Fetzer's, and she had once had a suspicion. But it was unfounded, she knew perfectly, and she had only friendly feelings for Ellen. Sometimes the beating of her heart almost suffocated her. Stephen was helpless without her and she believed that his misfortune had narrowed to nothingness the gap between them. She interpreted a growing humility and gentleness as a growing regard for herself. A little color remained steadily in her cheeks and she acquired a sort of majesty of mien. She selected the friends who should be admitted to his room; she barred out those who, she thought, would prove exciting; she did not inform him, until he was almost well, of the concern for his life which was almost city-wide.

Stephen continued humble and patient. The next week he went to the shore with Miss Knowlton and Fickes. He had now, he believed, given Ellen up. Among his friends was a conspiracy; they all had confidence in the healing power of occupation and they meant presently to bring him back to an orderly house and to an office set to run with its former machine-like regularity. Devoted assistance should make his affliction of no account, for his office practice at least.

At the shore he passed an intolerable month. Miss Knowlton read to him in a voice which took on after the first page the mournful tones of an Æolian harp set to sing in a south wind. She selected religious compositions which made him blush. Fickes carried him about, over miles upon miles of smooth roads, but Fickes, always a dull companion, was now awed and more silent than ever.

He put the thought of Ellen away and sometimes he recited the Creed against her. He meant when he was delivered from Miss Knowlton to look secretly into this strange return to his believing youth, to discover whether he had been cheated in his weakness or helped in his need. At times, looking down at his shoulder, he said bitterly, "I should have something in exchange." At other times he dwelt upon possibilities which he could not put into words, but which answered the questions of weariness and despair.

There was a cruel bitterness in the fact that Ellen did nothing whatever to make the putting away of her difficult. Of all the world, she was indifferent to his misery. He evolved presently an unworthy explanation for her absence—she was repelled by his maimed condition. Then he grew sensitive to the eye of mankind.

One day Miss Knowlton approached his shaded chair on the beach with a letter. Unexpectedly another conspirator had joined them.

"To Dr. S. Lanfair, M.D."

Stephen smiled. Poor Fetzer, was an eye easier to lose than an arm?

"Read it."

"'Dear Friend,'" read Miss Knowlton noting all Fetzer's peculiarities of style. "'I take my pen in hand'—it is a pencil by the way—'to say that my prayers are answered and he is gone to where there is no more sin and sorrow. He made a good end'—italics—'I heard of your troubles, but we all must bear troubles, that is God's law. I suppose your holiday is over—anyhow, I will be at my old stand when you come back. Yours respect.'—period—'Mrs. James Fetzer.'"

"My holiday! Does Fetzer think I'm off on a holiday?"

Miss Knowlton looked at him, her long, homely face beaming with encouragement.

"Aren't you? She expects you to go back and get to work."

"She does, does she?"

"There isn't any reason why you shouldn't."

He looked at Miss Knowlton and grinned.

"I'll bet you and Salter and Fetzer and all the rest are in cahoot."

"When shall we go?" asked Miss Knowlton, trembling and believing, poor Miss Knowlton! that she was taking the first step toward her throne.

"At once, by all means," said Stephen grimly.