any good, it can't do him any harm, for nothing can save him now."
And then Jerold Wharton went up to Coningsby's room, which seemed coldly grim and dull, for the curtains were drawn to keep out the glaring light.
"Conny, old man," he said simply. "I've come back?"
At his words, Arthur Coningsby opened his eyes. "The light is very bad," he moaned. "Oh, this terrible fever! I can scarcely see your face, and yet just to hear your voice, old man, is better than a pound of panacea." He paused for a moment, as though struggling for breath. Finally he managed to gasp: "And you saw Olga?"
"Yes," replied Jerold, and his voice shook. "She is waiting for you still. I wish you could have seen her face as I told her your story. It was a beautiful theme for an artist; so sadly sweet, yet wonderfully happy. 'Jerry,' she said softly, I am not surprised. Women expect great things from men like Arthur.'"
Coningsby's eyes were closed and his face looked blue and pinched. With a terrible feeling of dread Jerold put his ear down to his friend's heart. He could scarcely hear it beat.
"I'm going to get well," groaned Coningsby weakly. "Even since I have heard your words the fever seems to have abated." He was struggling painfully for breath. "Oh, but it is glorious to know that she is waiting, that I shall be with her in a month. Olga! Olga! home again——" His voice trailed away into an echo. "Home again at last." For a moment, he
