a strangely grave
voice. He pushed the frantically excited Kiki from the bed to the floor.
He drew back the cover from the little dog huddled apprehensively
against young Frank's thin body. "Oh, good Lord! It's incredible! It
just isn't possible!"

"Isn't it?" snapped his wife, looking with distastefully wrinkled nose
at her husband's chalky face, wide staring eyes. "Well, here it is and
out it goes. Ring for Mason, Frank, at once. I want this dirty little
mongrel out!"

* * * * *

Without paying the slightest attention, her husband turned to Miss
Beaver. As he did so, his staring eyes fell upon the ornate plush album
on the foot of the bed.

"How did that get here?" he demanded.

"Old Mr. Wiley brought it last night," admitted Miss Beaver, who was
feeling a trifle indignant at the old gentleman's defection.

"Old Mr. Wiley?" echoed Doctor Parris; stupidly, for him, Miss Beaver
thought. "_Old Mr. Wiley?_"

Frank Wiley III, his voice shaky, almost shouted at her.

"Do you mean to stand there and tell me that old Mr. Wiley was here and
brought that album?"

"I may as well tell you now as ever," snapped Miss Beaver and
deliberately turned her back upon Mrs. Frank, addressing herself
pointedly to Doctor Parris and the boy's father. "The old gentleman has
been in here every night to see Frank since I've been on duty and he
brought his little dog, and in my opinion his little dog should get the
credit of any improvement in the patient's condition."

Frank Wiley III picked up the bulky volume and began turning the thick
cardboard pages. His hands trembled; his face was queerly pasty.

"Turn the pages yourself, nurse, will you? See if you can find old Mr.
Wiley's picture."

Miss Beaver flipped the cardboard pages one after another until a
familiar face looked quizzically at her from a faded old daguerrotype.
She put on finger triumphantly on it.

"Here he is. This is old Mr. Wiley."

Mrs. Frank tiptoed nearer, took a single look, then with a shrill scream
fainted into Doctor Parris's convenient arms.

He muttered under his breath: "Superstitious damsel, this." Of Miss
Beaver he asked drily as he deposited his fair burden distastefully in
the big chair where the old gentleman had been sitting on his nightly
visits: "My dear Miss Beaver, are you _very_ certain old Mr. Wiley has
been dropping in of nights?"

"Of course I am," declared Miss Beaver indignantly. "Is it so
astonishi