"Nobody is sick," David said politely; "you needn't have come."

"Somebody is sick further up the hill," William excused himself,

smiling.

"Is Mr. Wright worse?" Helena said quickly. She lifted the backgammon-

board on to the table, and whispered a word of manners to David, who

silently stubbed his copper-toed shoe into the carpet.

"No," the doctor said, "he's better, if anything. He managed to ask

Simmons for a poached egg, which made the old fellow cry with joy; and

he swore at me quite distinctly because I did not get in to see him

this morning. I really couldn't manage it, so I went up after tea, and

he was as mad as--as David," said William, slyly. And David, much

confused, kicked vigorously.

"Do you think he will ever be able to talk?" she said.

William would not commit himself. "Perhaps; and perhaps not. I didn't

get anything clear out of him to-night, except--a bad word."

"Damn?" David asked with interest.

William chuckled and then remembered to look proper. But David feeling

that he was being laughed at, hid his face on Helena's shoulder, which

made her lift him on to her knee. There, in the drowsy warmth of the

little autumn fire, and the quiet flow of grown people's meaningless

talk, he began to get sleepy; gradually his head slipped from her

shoulder to her breast, and when she gathered his dangling legs into

her lap, he fell sound asleep.

"It isn't his bedtime yet," she excused herself. She rested her cheek

on the child's head and looked over at the doctor. She wore a dark

crimson silk, the bosom filled with sheer white muslin that was caught

together under her soft chin by a little pearl pin; her lace

undersleeves were pushed back so that William could see the lovely

lines of her white wrists. Her parted hair fell in soft, untidy waves

down over her ears; she was staring absently across David's head into

the fire.

"I wish," William said, "that you would go and call on old Mr. Wright

some time. Take David with you. It would cheer him up." It seemed to

William King, thinking of the forlorn old man in his big four-poster,

that such a vision of maternity and peace would be pleasant to look

upon. "He wouldn't use David's bad word to you, I am sure."

"Wouldn't he?" she said.

For once the doctor's mind was nimble, and he said in quick

expostulation: "Come, come; you mustn't be morbid. You are thinking

about poor Sam and blaming yourself. Why, Mrs. Richie, you are no more

responsible for his folly than I am."




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