itt, shaking hands
vigorously, "but the fellows said afterwards that I ought to
apologize--to the mule. He was a perfectly good mule. But I'm a doctor
all right. I live here in Wallraven. I wondered if it might be you by
any chance, Allan, when I heard some Harringtons had bought here. But
this is the first chance a promising young chickenpox epidemic has given
me to find out."

"It's what's left of me," said Allan, smiling ruefully. "And--Phyllis,
this doctor-person turns out to be an old friend of mine. This is Mrs.
Harrington, Johnny."

"Oh, I'm so glad!" beamed Phyllis, springing up from her hammock, and
looking as if she loved Johnny. Here was exactly what was
needed--somebody for Allan to play with! She made herself delightful to
the newcomer for a few minutes, and then excused herself. They would
have a better time alone, for awhile, any way, and there was dinner to
order. Maybe this Johnny Hewitt-doctor would stay for dinner. He should
if she could make him! She sang a little on her way to the house, and
almost forgot the tiny hurt it had been when Allan seemed so saddened by
speaking of Louise Frey. She had no right to feel hurt, she knew. It was
only to be expected that Allan would always love Louise's memory. She
didn't know much about men, but that was the way it always was in
stories. A man's heart would die, under an automobile or anywhere else,
and all there was left for anybody else was leavings. It wasn't fair!
And then Phyllis threw back her shoulders and laughed, as she had
sometimes in the library days, and reminded herself what a nice world it
was, any way, and that Allan was going to be much helped by Johnny
Hewitt. That was a cheering thought, anyhow. She went on singing, and
ordered a beautiful, festively-varied dinner, a very poem of gratitude.
Then she pounced on the doctor as he was leaving and made him stay for
it.

Allan's eyes were bright and his face lighted with interest. Phyllis, at
the head of the table, kept just enough in the talk to push the men on
when it seemed flagging, which was not often. She learned more about
Allan, and incidentally Johnny Hewitt, in the talk as they lingered
about the table, than she had ever known before. She and Allan had lived
so deliberately in the placid present, with its almost childish
brightnesses and interests, that she knew scarcely more about her
husband's life than the De Guenthers had told her before she married
him. But she could see the who