diet. In one of the windows stood three potted
geraniums, growing nicely and bright red. Another window, where the
noonday sun shone in too warmly, was fitted with a red-striped awning;
and in a third--for the pleasant old room, at the extreme back of the
house, had no less than four of them--a baby electric fan, operated from
a storage battery, ran musically hour by hour. And through all these
marvels moved the biggest and most incredible marvel of all: a lady in a
blue-and-white dress and long apron, with spectacles and a gentle voice,
who was paid _twenty-five dollars a week_ to wait upon and give sponge
baths to her, Kern Garland.

Yes, you could do something with one thousand dollars put into a
checking account, and fourteen thousand more waiting behind that on a
certificate of deposit. But was it not the irony of life, was it not
life itself, that the little buncher, who only the other day would have
thrilled to her marrow at the mere thought of all these things, should
have won her lady's glories only when she was too strangely listless to
care for them?...

Mrs. Garland feebly protested against the doctor's staggering
expenditures, as in duty bound, but was silenced when he told her that,
by a lucky chance, he had a fund given him by a benevolent relative for
just such cases. The doctor took advantage of the interview to announce
a stiff raise in board-charges, saying, in quite a censorious way, that
he had been expecting for some time to hear a demand from her for such
an increase. As it was, through her failure to protect her own
interests, she and Kern had been doing the full duties of an office-boy
for him, doing them, he might say, faithfully and well, without
compensation of any sort whatsoever. This imposition must cease at once.

"Again," said he, "I am growing--somewhat heartier. I am quite aware
that I eat more. I say that thirty-five dollars a month, and probably
more, is the proper amount for me to pay."

And he said it so sternly, with such a superior gempman's way to him,
that Mrs. Garland, feeling convicted of guilt,--and, to tell the truth,
missing Kern's earnings sorely,--could only reply: "Just as you say,
sir, well, now, and thank you kindly, I'm sure."

The first excitement gradually subsided, and the Dabney House settled to
the long pull. Days slipped by, all just alike.

Kern's malady discouraged reading aloud. It discouraged conversation.
Visitors were not allowed. But twice, withou