ousand dollars, what would you do for yourself with it?"

It was a game well calculated to interest the little girl even in the
listlessness and apathy of fever. Kern spoke first of duck, of French
fried potatoes and salads rich with mayonnaise; then, hurrying on with
increasing eagerness, of taking a steamer to Europe and buying her and
mommer Persian clo'es....

Her medical adviser was obliged to check these too exciting flights.

"I mean more as a--as an occupation," he explained. "You know, of
course, you've bunched your last cheroot. I was wondering what sort of
nicer work you would like to fit yourself for--later on?"

Kern boggled a good deal over the answer to this, but finally got it
out.

"What I'd truly like to be, Mr. V.V., if I could, is a writer, sort of."

"Oh!... Yes, yes--a writer! Well, that's very nice. A very nice
occupation--writing."

The child was encouraged to go on. Staring at him with her grave
investigatory eyes, she said, quite timidly:

"Mr. V.V., do you think I could _ever_ be an eppig poet, sir?... Like
Homer the Blind Bard, y' know?"

Mr. V.V.'s encouraging smile became a little fixed. Yet there came
nothing of a smirk into it, nothing the least bit superior.... Was this
the explanation of the little girl's odd yearning toward pens and desks?
How came she to revere the Bard, where even to hear his name? Was it
possible that Mrs. Garland's changeling had a spark in her, a magic
urging her on?...

"Epic poet, is it?" said he aloud, cheerily. "Oh, I daresay something of
the sort can be arranged. No harm in having a try anyhow! First thing,
of course, is to get a good education...."

And he spoke of the High School, when Kern got back from her trip, with
a little brushing-up, first, perhaps, under his personal supervision....

And next morning, when Kern's temperature stood down a whole degree at
nine o'clock, these great plans seemed to come nearer at a bound. That
day the Dabney House drew a long breath and smiled. Miss Masters was
even more confident than Vivian that the hard corner had been turned. So
the verdict went to Hen Cooney, who telephoned from Saltman's; and so it
went to Jem Noonan, who was to be found waiting in front of the Dabney
House every evening in these days, silently biting a Heth Plantation
Cheroot, which he smoked because Kern made them, though secretly
preferring the White River brand, made by the Trust. A great capacity
for waiting had Jem. And that wa