him. "I'm sure you think so; it's just what you would
think, my generous boy."

"I'll prove it to you by and by, when I've had a wink of sleep. A bath,
breakfast, and two hours of rest--then I'll be in service again. Van's
resting comfortably, practically out of danger, and--Len, his eyes
remind me of a sick child's who has waked out of a delirium to find his
mother by his side."

"Is that the way his eyes look when they meet yours?"

He nodded. "Of course. That's how I know."

"O Red," she said softly--"to think of the eyes that look at you like
that!"

"They don't all," he answered as the two went up the stairs side by
side. "But Van--well, he's been through the deep waters, and he's
found--a footing on rock where he expected shifting sands. Ah, there's
my boy! Give him to me quick!"

The Little-Un, surging plumply out of the nursery, tumbled into his
father's arms, and submitted, shouting with glee, to the sort of
huggings, kissings, and general inspection to which he was happily
accustomed when Burns came home after a longer absence than usual.

Just before he went back to the hospital, refreshed by an hour's longer
sleep than he had meant to take, because Ellen would not wake him
sooner, Burns opened the pile of mail which had accumulated during his
absence. He sat on the arm of the blue couch, tossing the letters one by
one upon the table behind it, in two piles, one for his personal
consideration, the other for Miss Mathewson's answering. Ellen, happily
relaxing in a corner of the couch, her eyes watching the letter opening,
saw her husband's eyes widen as he stooped to pick up a small blue paper
which had fallen from the missive he had just slitted. As he unfolded
the blue slip and glanced at it, an astonished whistle leaped to his
lips.

"Well, by the powers--what's this?" he murmured. "A New York draft for a
thousand dollars, inclosed in a letter which says nothing except a
typewritten '_From One of the most grateful of all grateful patients_.'
Len, what do you think of that? Who on earth sent it? I haven't had a
rich patient who hasn't paid his bill, or who won't pay it in due form
when he gets around to it. And the poor ones don't send checks of this
size."

"I can't imagine," she said, studying the few words on the otherwise
blank sheet, and the postmark on the typewritten envelope, which showed
the letter also to have come from New York. "You haven't had a patient
lately who was travelling--a h