ut
discrimination, the older man came to the conclusion that it was the
companionship that counted. It pleased him vastly. It reminded him of
Max's boyhood, when he had read to Max at night. For once in the last
dozen years, he needed him.

"Go on, Ed. What in blazes makes you stop every five minutes?" Max
protested, one day.

Dr. Ed, who had only stopped to bite off the end of a stogie to hold in
his cheek, picked up his book in a hurry, and eyed the invalid over it.

"Stop bullying. I'll read when I'm ready. Have you any idea what I'm
reading?"

"Of course."

"Well, I haven't. For ten minutes I've been reading across both pages!"

Max laughed, and suddenly put out his hand. Demonstrations of affection
were so rare with him that for a moment Dr. Ed was puzzled. Then, rather
sheepishly, he took it.

"When I get out," Max said, "we'll have to go out to the White Springs
again and have supper."

That was all; but Ed understood.

Morning and evening, Sidney went to Max's room. In the morning she only
smiled at him from the doorway. In the evening she went to him after
prayers. She was allowed an hour with him then.

The shooting had been a closed book between them. At first, when he
began to recover, he tried to talk to her about it. But she refused to
listen. She was very gentle with him, but very firm.

"I know how it happened, Max," she said--"about Joe's mistake and all
that. The rest can wait until you are much better."

If there had been any change in her manner to him, he would not
have submitted so easily, probably. But she was as tender as ever,
unfailingly patient, prompt to come to him and slow to leave. After a
time he began to dread reopening the subject. She seemed so effectually
to have closed it. Carlotta was gone. And, after all, what good could he
do his cause by pleading it? The fact was there, and Sidney knew it.

On the day when K. had told Max his reason for giving up his work, Max
was allowed out of bed for the first time. It was a great day. A box of
red roses came that day from the girl who had refused him a year or more
ago. He viewed them with a carelessness that was half assumed.

The news had traveled to the Street that he was to get up that day.
Early that morning the doorkeeper had opened the door to a gentleman
who did not speak, but who handed in a bunch of early chrysanthemums and
proceeded to write, on a pad he drew from his pocket:--

"From Mrs. McKee's family and gues