once more alive to recurrent pain.
Pain that was an old, old story, yet ever acute and insistent and
merciless.

The night wore on, hour by hour. The courthouse clock rang out one
single deep mellow clang. One o'clock! Lane thrilled to the sound. It
brought back the school days, the vacation days, the Indian summer
days when the hills were golden and the purple haze hung over the
land--the days that were to be no more for Daren Lane.

In the distance somewhere a motor-car hummed, and came closer, louder
down the street, to slow its sound with sliding creak and jar outside
in front of the house. Lane heard laughter and voices of a party of
young people. Footsteps, heavy and light, came up the walk, and on to
the porch. Lorna was returning rather late from the motion-picture,
thought Lane, and he raised his head from the pillow, to lean toward
the open window, listening.

"Come across, kiddo," said a boy's voice, husky and low.

Lane heard a kiss--then another.

"Cheese it, you boob!"

"Gee, your gettin' snippy. Say, will you ride out to Flesher's
to-morrow night?"

"Nothing doing, I've got a date. Good night."

The hall door below opened and shut. Footsteps thumped off the porch
and out to the street. Lane heard the giggle of girls, the snap of a
car-door, the creaking of wheels, and then a low hum, dying away.

Lorna came slowly up stairs to enter her room, moving quietly. And
Lane lay on his bed, wide-eyed, staring into the blackness. "My little
sister," he whispered to himself. And the words that had meant so much
seemed a mockery.

CHAPTER III

Lane saw the casement of his window grow gray with the glimmering
light of dawn. After that he slept several hours. When he awoke it was
nine o'clock. The long night with its morbid dreams and thoughts had
passed, and in the sunshine of day he saw things differently.

To move, to get up was not an easy task. It took stern will, and all
the strength of muscle he had left, and when he finally achieved it
there was a clammy dew of pain upon his face. With slow guarded
movements he began to dress himself. Any sudden or violent action
might burst the delicate gassed spots in his lungs or throw out of
place one of the lower vertebrae of his spine. The former meant death,
and the latter bent his body like a letter S and caused such
excruciating agony that it was worse than death. These were his two
ever-present perils. The other aches and pains he could endur