around the room and kicking things," Kenny commanded
more than once with his own hand clenched in his hair. "If you don't
remember, you don't remember, and that's an end of it. Here's the
book. Look it over while I'm smoking."

Once when the clash had a suspicious ring of familiarity, he grinned.

"What's the matter?" demanded Don huffily. "What are you laughing at?
Me?"

"No," said Kenny. "I was just thinking of a man I know. Name's
Whitaker."

Thus May came with a warm wind of spice and fresh misgivings furrowed
the doctor's brow.

"Now that the windows are opened so much," he fretted, "the rumble of
that quarry is inferno. The blasts bother him?"

"He jumps," said Joan.

"I thought so. He must have peace and quiet. If Mr. O'Neill is
willing, we'll move him to the farm."

By the time the orchard flung out its white prayer of blossoms to the
sun, the doctor had his patient at the farm.

And summer dreamed again upon the hills.

CHAPTER XXXVII

HONEYSUCKLE DAYS

Pine-sweet wind still blew around the cabin, the sylvan river laughed
in the sun, wistaria hung grape-like on the ladder of vine; but over it
all, to Kenny, brooded the pathos of change.

He longed wistfully for the gay vitality of that other summer when
every day had been an exquisite intaglio of laughter. There were times
when unreasonably he even missed Adam. How the nights in contrast had
sharpened the joy of his days! And he hated the village boy who
ferried the punt back and forth upon the river, hated the horn with its
transforming miracles of reminiscence, for it pointed the nameless lack
of sparkle now that struck melancholy into his soul. He had lived in
Arcady and jealously he would have hoarded each detail of its charm.

The days were long and quiet. Life for all of them centered around the
wheel-chair on the porch. There Joan read aloud while the nurse kept
wisely in the background, and Hannah at meal-times set the table on the
porch.

In the long afternoons of study that Kenny spent with Don, Brian
asserted his independence and banished books. He seemed content to
talk. Joan listened eagerly to his tales of the road, never tiring of
Don's vagabond adventures. After the worried months of monotony and
pain, the afternoons of reminiscence were tonic for them both. Lazy
humor crept back to Brian's eyes. At times he whistled. Wind and sun
were tanning his skin to the hue of health.

He had his dark hours