Softly Doctor MacCausland opened the door and motioned Varge forward.
A man with his back turned—Harold Merton—stood at the window; a nurse, in uniform and cap, rose from a chair at the far side of the bed. Varge looked at neither—it was only the smoothly parted silver hair, the sweet, gentle face it crowned he saw—and it was the past upon him, the past of long ago, with all the old dear, tender intimacy of other years—when she had been his mother. There was eagerness in his step, in his arms—that were involuntarily stretched out toward her. And then halfway to the bed he stopped, his arms dropped to his sides and a greyness crept to his lips. She had turned away her head and covered her face with both her hands.
Doctor MacCausland and Doctor Kreelmar entered the room quietly. The dark eyes of Harold Merton, like burning fires they seemed in his drawn, chalky face, shot a glance over his shoulder—there was a soft rustle of the nurse's dress, as she bent forward a little over the bed.
Between her hands Mrs. Merton's lips moved silently.
Suddenly Varge straightened in a strange, alert, startled way, as though listening intently—that breathing—his trained ear knew it well. He turned, and for an instant looked full into Doctor MacCausland's face; then turned again, his eyes, troubled, anxious, upon the bed.
Slowly Mrs. Merton uncovered her face, and her hand reached out to him.
"Yes; come," she whispered, and tried to smile. "That is—that is why I asked for you."
Through a mist now Varge saw her—but through
