ve got to think about is
getting well."

"But--but--Miss Eleanor?" Quin queried weakly, fearing that the blessed
presence that had hovered over him was but a figment of his dreams.

"She came home to help bury me," said Madam. "Failing to get the job, she
took to nursing you. Now stop talking and go to sleep. If I hear any more
of this stuff and nonsense about your being in a hospital and making bead
chains, I'll forbid Eleanor crossing the threshold; do you hear?"

From that time on Quin's convalescence was rapid--almost too rapid, in
fact, for his peace of mind. Never in his life had he been so watched
over and so tenderly cared for. Mr. Ranny kept him supplied with fresh
eggs and cream from Valley Mead; Mr. Chester and Miss Enid deluged him
with magazines and flowers; Miss Isobel gave him his medicine and fixed
his tray herself; Madam chaperoned his thoughts and allowed no intruding
fancies or vagaries.

But all these attentions were as nothing to him, compared with the
miracle of Eleanor's presence. Just why she was remaining at home he
dared not ask, for fear he should be told the date of her departure. The
fact that she flitted in and out of his room, flirting with the doctor,
teasing the aunties, assuming a divine proprietorship over him, was
heaven enough in itself.

Sometimes, when they were alone and she thought he was asleep he would
see the dancing, restless light die out of her eyes, and a beautiful
exalted look come into them as if she were listening to the music of the
spheres.

He attributed this to the fact that she was happy in being once more
reconciled to the family. Even she and Madam seemed to be on terms of the
closest intimacy, and he spent hours in trying to understand what had
effected the change.

As he grew stronger and was allowed to sit up in bed, he realized, with a
shock, what a fool's paradise he was living in. A few more days and he
must go back to that dark, damp room in Chestnut Street. He must find
work--and work, however menial, for which he had the strength. Eleanor
would return to New York, and he would probably never see her again.
During his illness she had been heavenly kind to him, but that was no
reason for thinking she had changed her mind. She had given him his final
answer there in New York, and he was grimly determined never to open the
subject again.

But one day, when they were alone together, his resolution sustained a
compound fracture. Eleanor was reading a