dness in the very tone of his voice--hitherto. She grew
to feel a distinct sense of relief and dependence every time he entered
the door, and his visits were so many that it came to seem as if his
motor were always standing at the curb.

"You know, Len, Van's a tremendous trump," Burns himself said to her
suddenly, in the middle of one trying night when Doctor Van Horn had
looked in unexpectedly to see if he might ease his patient and secure
him a chance of rest after many hours of pain. "It seems like a queer
dream, sometimes, to open my eyes and see him sitting there, looking at
me as if I were a younger brother and he cared a lot."

"He does care," Ellen answered positively. "You would be even surer of
it if you could hear him talk with me alone. He speaks of you as if he
loved you--and what is there strange about that? Everybody loves you,
Red. I'm keeping a list of the people who come to ask about you and
send you things. You haven't heard of half of them. And to-day Franz
telephoned to offer to come and play for you some night when you
couldn't sleep with the pain. He begged to be allowed to do the one
thing he could to show his sympathy."

"Bless his heart! I'd like to hear him. I often wish my ears would
stretch to reach him in his orchestra." Burns moved restlessly as he
spoke. A fresh invasion of trouble in his hand and arm was reaching a
culmination, and no palliative measures could ease him long. "You've no
idea, Len," he whispered as Ellen's hand strayed through his heavy
coppery locks with the soothing touch he loved well, "what it means to
me to have you stand by me like this. If I give in now it won't be for
want of your supporting courage."

"It's you who have the courage, Red--wonderful courage."

He shook his head. "It's just the thought of you--and the Little-Un--and
Bobby Burns--that's all. If it wasn't for you--"

He turned away his head. She knew the thing he had to fear--the thing
she feared for him. Though his very life was in danger it was not that
which made the threatening depths of black shadow into which he looked.
If he should come out of this fight with a crippled right hand there
would be no more work for him about which he could care. Neither Van
Horn nor Buller would admit that there was danger of this; but Grayson,
who had seen the hand yesterday; Fields, who was making blood counts for
the case; Lenhart and Stevenson, who had come to make friendly calls
every few days and who k