tones. In the middle of the ward was an open stove, and the restless flames were reflected in all the brass knobs of the bedsteads and in some shining metal balls which hung from an unlighted chandelier. His part of the ward was almost in darkness. A confused, subdued murmur of little coughs, breathings, rustlings, was continually audible, and sometimes it rose above the conversation at the table. He noticed all these things. He became conscious, too, of a strangely familiar smell. What was it? Ah, yes! Acetic acid—his mother used it for her rheumatics.
Suddenly, magically, a great longing came over him. He must see his mother, or his brothers, or his little sister—some one who knew him, same one who belonged to him. He could have cried out in his desire. This one thought consumed all his faculties. If his mother could but walk in just now through that doorway! If only old Spot, even, could amble up to him, tongue out and tail furiously wagging! He tried to sit up, and he could not move! Then despair settled on him, and weighed him down. He closed his eyes.
The doctor and the nurse came slowly up the ward, pausing here and there. They stopped before his bed, and he held his breath.
"Not roused up again, I suppose?"
"No."
"Hm! He may flicker on for forty-eight hours. Not more."
They went on, and with a sigh of relief he opened his. eyes again. The doctor shook hands with the nurse, who returned to the table and sat down.
Death! The end of all this! Yes, it was coming. He felt it. His had been one of those wasted lives of which he used to read in books. How strange! Almost amusing! He was one of those sons who bring sorrow and shame into a family. Again,
