On the seventh of June David and Lucy went to the seashore, went by

the order of various professional gentlemen who had differed violently

during the course of David's illness, but who now suddenly agreed with

an almost startling unanimity. Which unanimity was the result of careful

coaching by Dick.

He saw in David's absence his only possible chance to go back to Norada

without worry to the sick man, and he felt, too, that a change, getting

away from the surcharged atmosphere of the old house, would be good for

both David and Lucy.

For days before they started Lucy went about in a frenzy of nervous

energy, writing out menus for Minnie for a month ahead, counting and

recounting David's collars and handkerchiefs, cleaning and pressing his

neckties. In the harness room in the stable Mike polished boots until

his arms ached, and at the last moment with trunks already bulging,

came three gift dressing-gowns for David, none of which he would leave

behind.

"I declare," Lucy protested to Dick, "I don't know what's come over him.

Every present he's had since he was sick he's taking along. You'd think

he was going to be shut up on a desert island."

But Dick thought he understood. In David's life his friends had had to

take the place of wife and children; he clung to them now, in his age

and weakness, and Dick knew that he had a sense of deserting them, of

abandoning them after many faithful years.

So David carried with him the calendars and slippers, dressing-gowns and

bed-socks which were at once the tangible evidence of their friendliness

and Lucy's despair.

Watching him, Dick was certain nothing further had come to threaten his

recovery. Dick carefully inspected the mail, but no suspicious letter

had arrived, and as the days went on David's peace seemed finally

re-established. He made no more references to Johns Hopkins, slept like

a child, and railed almost pettishly at his restricted diet.

"When we get away from Dick, Lucy," he would say, "we'll have beef

again, and roast pork and sausage."

Lucy would smile absently and shake her head.

"You'll stick to your diet, David," she would say. "David, it's the

strangest thing about your winter underwear. I'm sure you had five

suits, and now there are only three."

Or it was socks she missed, or night-clothing. And David, inwardly

chuckling, would wonder with her, knowing all the while that they had

clothed some needy body.

On the night before the departure David went out for his first short

walk alone, and brought Elizabeth back with him.




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