tered that
sardonic laugh a few minutes before, parted in gentler fashion, and
song took the place of curses--a ballad of love and fondest truth. But
Orlando never knew what he sang. He had the gift and used it.

Would his tones, however, have rung out with quite so mellow a sweetness
had he seen the restless figure even then circling his retreat with
eyes darting accusation and arms lifted towards him in wild but impotent
threat?

Yes, I think they would; for he knew that the man who thus expressed his
helplessness along with his convictions, was no nearer the end he had
set himself to attain than on the day he first betrayed his suspicions.

XXXIV. THE HUT CHANGES ITS NAME

That night Oswald was taken very ill. For three days his life hung in
the balance, then youth and healthy living triumphed over shock and
bereavement, and he came slowly back to his sad and crippled existence.

He had been conscious for a week or more of his surroundings, and of his
bitter sorrows as well, when one morning he asked Doris whose face it
was he had seen bending over him so often during the last week: "Have
you a new doctor? A man with white hair and a comforting smile? Or have
I dreamed this face? I have had so many fancies this might easily be one
of them."

"No, it is not a fancy," was the quiet reply. "Nor is it the face of
a doctor. It is that of friend. One whose heart is bound up in your
recovery; one for whom you must live, Mr. Brotherson."

"I don't know him, Doris. It's a strange face to me. And yet, it's not
altogether strange. Who is this man and why should he care for me so
deeply?"

"Because you share one love and one grief. It is Edith's father whom you
see at your bedside. He has helped to nurse you ever since you came down
this second time."

"Edith's father! Doris, it cannot be. Edith's father!"

"Yes, Mr. Challoner has been in Derby for the last two weeks. He has
only one interest now; to see you well again."

"Why?"

Doris caught the note of pain, if not suspicion, in this query, and
smiled as she asked in turn:

"Shall he answer that question himself? He is waiting to come in. Not
to talk. You need not fear his talking. He's as quiet as any man I ever
saw."

The sick man closed his eyes, and Doris watching, saw the flush rise
to his emaciated cheek, then slowly fade away again to a pallor that
frightened her. Had she injured where she would heal? Had she pressed
too suddenly and too hard