She re-entered the hut, flung off her bonnet and cloak, and approached
the sufferer. He had begun anew those terrible mutterings, and his
hands were cold. As soon as she saw him there returned to her that
agony of mind which the stimulus of her journey had thrown off for a
time.

Could he really be dying? She bathed him, kissed him, forgot all things
but the fact that lying there before her was he who had loved her more
than the mere lover would have loved; had martyred himself for her
comfort, cared more for her self-respect than she had thought of
caring. This mood continued till she heard quick, smart footsteps
without; she knew whose footsteps they were.

Grace sat on the inside of the bed against the wall, holding Giles's
hand, so that when her husband entered the patient lay between herself
and him. He stood transfixed at first, noticing Grace only. Slowly he
dropped his glance and discerned who the prostrate man was. Strangely
enough, though Grace's distaste for her husband's company had amounted
almost to dread, and culminated in actual flight, at this moment her
last and least feeling was personal. Sensitive femininity was eclipsed
by self-effacing purpose, and that it was a husband who stood there was
forgotten. The first look that possessed her face was relief;
satisfaction at the presence of the physician obliterated thought of
the man, which only returned in the form of a sub-consciousness that
did not interfere with her words.