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Albert’s selfishness was in a way excusable. He enjoyed beyond measure the sound of the girl’s soft voice and the sight of her graceful head bent over the page. He lay, looking and listening dreamily, till the voice and the sunlit head were lost in a deep, sweet sleep.

The girl sat with closed book, looking at his face as he slept. It was a curious study to her, a young man–this young man, asleep. His brown lashes lay on his cheek as placid as those of a child. As she looked she gained courage to go over softly and peer down on him. How boyish he seemed! How little to be feared! A boy outside uttered a shout, and she hurried away, pale and breathless. As she paused in the door and looked back at the undisturbed sleeper, she smiled, and the pink came back into her thin face.

Albert’s superb young blood began to assert itself, and on the afternoon of the fifth day he was able to sit in his rocking-chair before the fire and read a little, though he professed that his eyes were not strong, in order that Maud should read for him. This she did as often as she could leave her other work, which was “not half often enough,” the invalid grumbled.

“More than you deserve,” she found courage to say.

Hartley let nothing interfere with the book business. “You take it easy,” he repeated. “Don’t you worry–your pay goes on just the same. You’re doing well right where you are. By jinks! biggest piece o’ luck,” he went on, half in earnest. “Why, I can’t turn around without taking an order–fact! Turned in a book on the livery bill, so that’s all fixed. We’ll make a clear hundred dollars out o’ that little bump o’ yours.”

“Little bump! Say, now, that’s–“

“Keep it up–put it on! Don’t hurry about getting well. I don’t need you to canvass, and I guess you enjoy being waited on.” He ended with a sly wink and cough.

Yes, convalescence was delicious, with Maud reading to him, bringing his food, and singing for him; all that marred his peace was the stream of people who came to inquire how he was getting along. The sympathy was largely genuine, as Hartley could attest, but it bored the invalid. He had rather be left in quiet with Walter Scott and Maud. In the light of common day the accident was hurrying to be a dream.

At the end of a week he was quite himself again, though he still had difficulty in wearing his hat. It was not till the second Sunday after the accident that he appeared in the dining-room for the first time, with a large travelling-cap concealing the suggestive bandages. He looked pale and thin, but his eyes danced with joy.

Maud’s eyes dilated with instant solicitude. The rest sprang up in surprise, with shouts of delight, as hearty as brethren.

“Ginger! I’m glad t’ see yeh!” said Troutt, so sincerely that he looked almost winning to the boy. The rest crowded around, shaking hands.

“Oh, I’m on deck again.”

Ed Brann came in a moment later with his brother, and there was a significant little pause–a pause which grew painful till Albert turned and saw Brann, and called out:

“Hello, Ed! How are you? Didn’t know you were here.”

As he held out his hand, Brann, his face purple with shame and embarrassment, lumbered heavily across the room and took it, muttering some poor apology.

“Hope y’ don’t blame me.”

“Of course not–fortunes o’ war. Nobody to blame; just my carelessness.–Yes; I’ll take turkey,” he said to Maud, as he sank into the seat of honor.

The rest laughed, but Brann remained standing near Albert’s chair. He had not finished yet.

“I’m mighty glad you don’t lay it up against me, Lohr; an’ I want to say the doctor’s bill is all right; you un’erstand, it’s all right.”

Albert looked at him a moment in surprise. He understood that this, coming from a man like Brann, meant more than a thousand prayers from a ready apologist. It was a terrible victory, and he was disposed to make it as easy for his rival as he could.