sufficient data."

Leaver smiled faintly. "Nevertheless, I can't do it, Red. You wouldn't do
it in my place. Be honest--would you?"

"Probably not. I'd be just pig-headed fool enough to argue the case to
myself precisely as you are doing. Well, Jack, I've expected this hour.
It's a pity there isn't more faith and trust in friendship in the world.
We're all deadly afraid of trying our friends too far, so after just
about so long we strike out for ourselves. But since it is as it is, and
you're growing restless, I'll agree that you leave us, if you'll stay for
a while where you'll be under my observation. I've set my heart on making
a complete cure in this case--or, rather, you understand, assisting
Nature to do so. If you go off somewhere I shall lose track of you.
Suppose you stay in the village here for a while longer. I know a
splendid place for you, just round the corner. Quiet, pleasant home,
middle-aged widow and her young son--a lady, and a sensible, cheerful
one--she'll never bore you by talk unless you feel like it--and then the
talk will be worth while. What do you say? You know perfectly well that
you're not yet quite fit to shift for yourself. Be rational, and let me
manage things for you a while longer."

Leaver stood up; in the dim light Burns could not see his face. But he
heard his voice--one which showed tension.

"You don't know what you're asking, old friend. There are reasons why I
feel like getting away, entirely apart from any conditions under your
control. Yet since you ask it of me, and I owe you so much, and since--I
suppose it doesn't really make much difference where I am--I'll stay for
the present."

"Good! I'm much obliged, Jack."

Burns got up, also, and the two strolled away together, in the pleasant
summer dusk.

CHAPTER IX

A PRACTICAL ARTIST

"Here I am! And the goods are here too. Isn't it a miracle? It could
never have been done if I hadn't found a kind friend among the railroad
men, who sent my things by fast freight. Now to settle in a whirlwind of
a hurry and fly back for Granny."

These were Miss Charlotte Ruston's words of greeting as she shook hands
with the occupants of the Macauley car, which had met her at the station
on the last day of July. She looked as fresh and eager to carry out her
plans as if she were not just at the end of a journey.

"I suppose you'll stop for luncheon first," Martha Macauley suggested.
She noted, with the approval of the subur