did. But she had gladly and willingly given him up to the girl whom he

loved, quietly taking the second place in his thoughts and affections, and now she was as ready to give him up to the Master who loved him, and was calling him.

At last, one morning, Hope spoke straightforwardly to the doctor.

"Why does my husband linger so long, if he cannot get better? He takes nourishment. Have you no hope that he may yet pull through?"

"I am just beginning to hope," was the answer.

Then, as a flood of colour swept up into Hope's white cheeks, the doctor put out his hand as if to stop any premature rejoicing.

"I think we must have another opinion," he said. "I can be quite frank with you, Mrs. Dane. Life will not necessarily mean health. I fear paralysis of the brain."

Hope's heart sank very low again. Could she wish her husband a living death? She could not.

A physician came down from London, and after a long consultation, Hope was called into the room to hear the result.

"We think that he might possibly be roused. Will you try to do this? If he will respond to any one, it will be to you. Can you make the attempt?"

So with a beating heart Hope went back to her husband's bedside, and bending over the unconscious form, she called in a clear steady voice close to his ear:

"Lancelot! Lancelot, darling, I want you."

There was no movement. The doctors and nurse watched anxiously. Mrs. Dane in the background also watched and prayed.

"Put your heart into it," whispered the doctor. "Remind yourself that this is his last chance. Make him hear you!"

Hope did not need this stimulant. Her whole soul rose into her agonised cry.

"Lancelot, it is Hope who wants you. Come to me—help me—help!"

There was a slight quiver of the still eyelashes, a slight motion of his head. The word "help" seemed to have reached him at last.

She put her mouth close to his ear, and the intense yearning in her cry brought a moisture into the old physician's eyes.

"Lancelot, my husband, come to your wife! Help me, I want you. Help!"

His eyelids flickered, and then in the smallest weakest voice possible these words were clearly heard.

"I am—trying—to—come."

"Then look up! I am here, darling. Hope is here; look at me—look!"

The soul that seemed so far away, in that mysterious border region between life and death, had returned to the world. Lancelot opened his eyes, and as they fell on Hope's sweet eager face so close to his, there was recognition in his glance.

"Hope—my darling—kiss me."

Hope put her lips to his.

The tense moment had passed. The doctors seemed to draw breath.

"Give him stimulant, nurse, at once."

The physician spoke, and in a few moments the sick man murmured:

"I am afraid I am ill, Hope; can you tell me?"

"I will tell you everything soon, dear. You have been very ill, and now you're getting better."

Hope's eyes were full of happy tears. The doctors left the room.

"Let him sleep now. His brain is uninjured. He will pull round."

And then, leaving her husband in a quiet peaceful sleep, Hope flung herself into Mrs. Dane's motherly arms.

"Oh, mother—let me call you so! How good you have been to me, and oh, how good of God! After all my unbelief and rebellion! Can we—will you thank Him for me?"

Together they knelt in prayer, and Hope's face, when she rose from her knees, was a study in rapt contentment and delight, but her bright brown hair was streaked with grey.