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THE STRAND MAGAZINE. 
Osmond shook his head, rather weakly. 
“ Are you married ? ” The doctor’s voice 
was very kind. 
“ Yes, and 1 have a little girl.' 5 
Then the doctor told him. 
It seemed that he had a year or eighteen 
months perhaps even two years, but cer- 
tainly not more — to live. 
Osmond listened, heard, understood. He 
was conscious of a curious feeling of sick 
dullness, a nauseating inertia of the mind. 
He stared at the doctor, feeling rather stupid. 
He did not know that his eyes were exactly 
those of a quiet, rather timid dog, begging. 
Then the fogs and shadows in his brain 
seemed to clear slowly, leaving him lucid and 
very much afraid. 
He decided to say nothing for a few 
moments — nothing at all. He did not wish 
to make himself look ridiculous. He con- 
tinued to stare at the doctor. 
“ I’m sorry. Drink this.” 
He drank that which the doctor gave him. 
He never knew what it was he drank ; it 
seemed quite tasteless. There was a bite to 
it, he remembered afterwards — a sensation of 
heat in the throat. Probably it was brandy. 
It helped him, whatever it was, and he 
spoke. 
This is a terrible thing for me, doctor,” 
he said, slowly. “ 1 have a wife and little 
girl dependent on me.” He paused, wonder- 
ing what they would say. “ 1 shall have to 
do something. 1 live carefully, but I can 
live more carefully. That, and treatment, 
will help. Strict attention to doctor’s orders 
—no deceiving myself, but obeying orders. 
Serious treatment — common sense ” He 
faltered a little. Heaven help me, doctor. 
1 mustn’t die for years. Look ! ” He 
snatched out the miniature of his baby Doreen 
to show the doctor, hesitated, steadied him- 
self, put back the miniature, and said no 
more. 
“ I could sell you drugs, my friend,” said 
the doctor, tonelessly. “ But you have a 
better use for your money. Keep it for them 
— drugs can’t give you a new heart. Now, 
listen to me.” 
Osmond listened hungrily to the things 
the medical man told him. Some were useful 
things to know, some even consolatory, but 
there were none that were hopeful. Once it 
seemed to Osmond almost as though the 
medical man was rambling aimlessly, repeat- 
ing himself. 
At the end of it Osmond found himself 
with his whole mind pinned to one phrase. 
Everything in these cases depends on 
a man’s character. No man can do more 
than his best. But his best is a question of 
character.” The context no doubt was apt, 
but Osmond troubled only to remember that. 
He clung to it. 
For he had “ great nobility of character ” 
the phrenologist had said it, he knew it 
himself. Well — now he must draw deep 
upon that nobility. 
He pondered, his face clearing. How that 
simplified things ! He drew a deep breath. 
He had to die — he knew it. Very good. 
He would die fighting — for Isabel and Doreen. 
Come what may they must be left provided 
for. That was to be his fight — two thousand 
pounds at three per cent. — sixty pounds a 
year — not enough. Three thousand was the 
minimum. 
That was it — three thousand would do it 
—more if possible, but certainly not less. 
He had to get that — three thousand pounds 
in eighteen months. 
Well — he would do it, by hook or by crook. 
Somehow. He was thinking quickly, wonder- 
fully, amazingly. He saw at once that to 
work out his brief destiny nobly he must do 
it alone, in silence. They must not know. 
They were happy now — to destroy their 
happiness at one blow by telling them his fate 
was too great a price to pay for their sympathy. 
They loved him now — they could love him 
no more even if they were told the ill news. 
Very well, then. Afterwards — afterwards — - 
when all was well with them, save only that 
he would not be there — he would like them to 
know of the fight he had made — was going to 
make for them. That was natural, and if a 
man, whose body is lying still and tranquil in 
his grave, can know anything at all, it would 
be sweet to know that they loved him, 
cherished his memory, because of the way in 
which he had faced the inevitable, for them. 
He stood up, bright-eyed — a new man. 
“ I’ve puzzled it out,” he said, a ring in his 
voice, thanked the doctor, paid him, and went 
out. 
The doctor stared at the door — slipping a 
little white tablet into his mouth as he stared. 
Then slowly, heavily, he sat down with an 
extraordinary air of collapse. 
There was still that odd tremor about his 
hands. ^ 
Osmond took a turn up and down the street, 
thinking desperately, before he rejoined his 
wife. But it was hardly necessary — his 
colours were nailed to the mast before ever 
he left the doctor. He was even able to 
