rature rose one night to a hundred and three, and for a few brief
moments his mother and Aunt Annie enjoyed visions of fighting the grim
spectre of Death. The tiny round pink spots covered his face and then
ran together into a general vermilion. He coughed exquisitely. His beard
grew. He supported life on black-currant tea and an atmosphere
impregnated with eucalyptus. He underwent the examination of the doctor
every day at eleven. But he was not personally and genuinely ill. He did
not feel ill, and he said so. His most disquieting symptom was boredom.
This energetic organism chafed under the bed-clothes and the
black-currant tea and the hushed eucalyptic calm of the chamber. He
fervently desired to be up and active and stressful. His mother and aunt
cogitated in vain to hit on some method of allaying the itch for work.
And then one day--it was the day before Christmas--his mother chanced to
say:

'You might try to write out that story you told us about--when you are
a little stronger. It would be something for you to do.'

Henry shook his head sheepishly.

'Oh no!' he said; 'I was only joking.'

'I'm sure you could write it quite nicely,' his mother insisted.

And Henry shook his head again, and coughed. 'No,' he said. 'I hope I
shall have something better to do than write stories.'

'But just to pass the time!' pleaded Aunt Annie.

The fact was that, several weeks before, while his thoughts had been
engaged in analyzing the detrimental qualities of the Stream of Trashy
Novels Constantly Poured Forth by the Press, Henry had himself been
visited by a notion for a story. He had scornfully ejected it as an
inopportune intruder; but it had returned, and at length, to get rid for
ever of this troublesome guest, he had instinctively related the outline
of the tale over the tea-table. And the outline had been pronounced
wonderful. 'It might be called _Love in Babylon_--Babylon being London,
you know,' he had said. And Aunt Annie had exclaimed: 'What a pretty
title!' Whereupon Henry had remarked contemptuously and dismissingly:
'Oh, it was just an idea I had, that's all!' And the secret thought of
both ladies had been, 'That busy brain is never still.'

As the shades of Christmas Eve began to fall, Aunt Annie was seated by
the sick-bed, engaged in making entries in the household washing-book
with a lead pencil. Henry lay with his eyes closed. Mrs. Knight was out
shopping. Presently there was a gentle _ting_ of the fro