home, and he walked away, looking back no more.

CHAPTER XXIII

IN WHICH DOCTOR HOYLE SPEAKS HIS MIND

Doctor Hoyle sat in his office staring straight before him, not as if he
were looking at David Thryng, who sat in range of his vision, but as if
seeing beyond him into some other time and place. David had been
speaking, but now they both were silent, and the young man wondered if
his old friend had really been paying attention to his words or not.

"Well, Doctor," he said at last.

"Well, David."

"You don't seem satisfied. Is it with my condition?"

"Your condition? No, no, no! It's not your condition. Yes, yes--fine,
fine. I never saw such a marvellous change in my life, never!"

David smiled over the old doctor's stammer of enthusiasm. It was as if
his thoughts, fertile and vehement, and the feelings of his great, warm
heart welled up within him, and, trying to burst forth all at once,
tumbled over themselves, unable to secure words rapidly enough in which
to give themselves utterance.

"Then why so silent and dubious?"

"Why--why--y--young man, I wasn't thinking anything about you just
then." And again David laughed, while his wiry old friend jumped up and
walked rapidly and restlessly about the small apartment and laughed in
sympathy. "It's not--not--"

"I know." David grew instantly sober again. "Of course the little chap's
case is serious--very--or I would not have brought him to you."

"Oh, no, no, I'm not thinking of Adam, bless you, no." The doctor always
called his little namesake Adam. "I'm thinking of her--the little girl
you left behind you. Yes--yes. Of her."

"She's not so little now, Doctor; she's tall--tall enough to be
beautiful."

"I remember her,--slight--slight little creature, all eyes and hair, all
soul and mind. Now what are you going to do with her, eh?"

"What is she going to do with me, rather! I'll go back to her as soon as
I dare leave the boy."

"But, man alive! what--what are--you can't live down there all your
days. It's to be life and work for you, sir, and what are you going to
do with her, I say?"

"I'll bring her here with me. She'll come."

"Of course you'll bring her here with you, and you--you'll have plenty
of friends. Maybe they'll appreciate her, and maybe they won't; maybe
they won't, I say; Understand? And she'll c--come. Oh, yes, she'll come!
she'll do whatever you say, and presently she'll break her heart and die
for you. She'll never say a