"Don't you know?—I want to what they call 'live.'"
The young man, for good-by, had taken his hand, which closed with a certain force. They looked at each other hard a moment. "You will live," said Dr. Hugh.
"Don't be superficial. It's too serious!"
"You shall live!" Dencombe's visitor declared, turning pale.
"Ah, that's better!" And as he retired the invalid, with a troubled laugh, sank gratefully back.
All that day and all the following night he wondered if it mightn't be arranged. His doctor came again, his servant was attentive, but it was to his confident young friend that he found himself mentally appealing. His collapse on the cliff was plausibly explained, and his liberation, on a better basis, promised for the morrow; meanwhile, however, the intensity of his meditations kept him tranquil and made him indifferent. The idea that occupied him was none the less absorbing because it was a morbid fancy. Here was a clever son of the age, ingenious and ardent, who happened to have set him up for connoisseurs to worship. This servant of his altar had all the new learning in science and all the old reverence in faith; wouldn't he therefore put his knowledge at the disposal of his sympathy, his craft at the disposal of his love? Couldn't he be trusted to invent a remedy for a poor artist to whose art he had
