leness at length. It would kill him, he said, and, borrowing a spade
from the Chinese gardener, he spent his time in heavy digging, within
easy call of the house. But for the wife and mother there was no help.
She was gently courteous to all, gently appreciative of Norah's attempts
to occupy her thoughts. But throughout it all--whether she looked at the
pets outside, or walked among the autumn roses in the garden, or
struggled to eat at the table--she was listening, ever listening.

In the evening of the third day Mr. Linton came quickly into the
drawing-room. Tears were falling down his face. He went up to Mrs.
Stephenson and put his hand on her shoulder.

"It's--it's all right, we think," he said brokenly. "He's conscious and
knew me, dear old chap! I was sitting by the bed, and suddenly his eyes
opened and all the fever had gone. 'Why, Davy!' he said. I told him
everything was all right, and he mustn't talk--and he's taken some
nourishment, and gone off into a natural sleep. Anderson's delighted."
Then he caught Mrs. Stephenson quickly as she slipped to his feet,
unconscious.

Then there were days of dreary waiting, of slow, harassing
convalescence. The patient did not seem to be alive to any outside
thought. He gained strength very slowly, but he lay always silent,
asking no questions, only when Mr. Linton entered the room showing any
sign of interest. The doctor was vaguely puzzled, vaguely anxious.

"Do you think I could go and see him?" Norah was outside the door of the
sick-room. The doctor often found her there--a little silent figure,
listening vainly for her friend's voice. She looked up pleadingly. "Not
if you think I oughtn't to," she said.

"I don't believe it would hurt him," Dr. Anderson said, looking down at
her. "Might wake him up a bit--I know you won't excite him."

So it was that the Hermit, waking from a restless sleep, found by his
side a small person with brown curls that he remembered.

"Why, it's my little friend," he murmured, feeling weakly for her hand.
"This seems a queer world--old friends and new, all mixed up."

"I'm so glad you're better, dear Mr. Hermit," Norah said. She bent and
kissed him. "And we're all friends--everybody."

"You did that once before," he said feebly. "No one had kissed me for
such a long, long while. But mustn't let you."

"Why?" asked Norah blankly.

"Because--because people don't think much of me, Miss Norah," he said, a
deep shade falling on his fine