man rising from the deep would disappear the sooner for fighting with the water, so he in his desperate struggle went down again.

One afternoon when he had been lying still, and Lizzie, unrecognized, had just stolen out of the room to pursue her occupation, he uttered Lightwood’s name.

“My dear Eugene, I am here.”

“How long is this to last, Mortimer?”

Lightwood shook his head. “Still, Eugene, you are no worse than you were.”

“But I know there’s no hope. Yet I pray it may last long enough for you to do me one last service, and for me to do one last action. Keep me here a few moments, Mortimer. Try, try!”

His friend gave him what aid he could, and encouraged him to believe that he was more composed, though even then his eyes were losing the expression they so rarely recovered.

“Hold me here, dear fellow, if you can. Stop my wandering away. I am going!”

“Not yet, not yet. Tell me, dear Eugene, what is it I shall do?”

“Keep me here for only a single minute. I am going away again. Don’t let me go. Hear me speak first. Stop me — stop me!”

“My poor Eugene, try to be calm.”

“I do try. I try so hard. If you only knew how hard! Don’t let me wander till I have spoken. Give me a little more wine.”

Lightwood complied. Eugene, with a most pathetic struggle against the unconsciousness that was coming over him, and with a look of appeal that affected his friend profoundly, said:

“You can leave me with Jenny, while you speak to her and tell her what I beseech of her. You can leave me with Jenny, while you are gone. There’s not much for you to do. You won’t be long away.”

“No, no, no. But tell me what it is that I shall do, Eugene!”

“I am going! You can’t hold me.”

“Tell me in a word, Eugene!”

His eyes were fixed again, and the only word that came from his lips was the word millions of times repeated. Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie.

But, the watchful little dressmaker had been vigilant as ever in her watch, and she now came up and touched Lightwood’s arm as he looked down at his friend, despairingly.

“Hush!” she said, with her finger on her lips. “His eyes are closing. He’ll be conscious when he next opens them. Shall I give you a leading word to say to him?”

“O Jenny, if you could only give me the right word!”

“I can. Stoop down.”

He stooped, and she whispered in his ear. She whispered in his ear one short word of a single syllable. Lightwood started, and looked at her.