everything.

For Garrison had fallen in love with his next-door neighbor, Sue Desha.
Though he did not know his past life, it was the first time he had
understood to the full the meaning of the ubiquitous, potential verb "to
love." And, instead of bringing peace and content--the whole gamut of
the virtues--hell awoke in little Billy Garrison's soul.

The second time he had seen her was the day following his arrival, and
when he had started on Doctor Blandly's open-air treatment.

"I'll have a partner over to put you through your paces in tennis," Mrs.
Calvert had said, a quiet twinkle in her eye. And shortly afterward, as
Garrison was aimlessly batting the balls about, feeling very much like
an overgrown schoolboy, Sue Desha, tennis-racket in hand, had come up
the drive.

She was bareheaded, dressed in a blue sailor costume, her sleeves rolled
high on her firm, tanned arms. She looked very businesslike, and was, as
Garrison very soon discovered.

Three sets were played in profound silence, or, rather, the girl made a
spectacle out of Garrison. Her services were diabolically unanswerable;
her net and back court game would have merited the earnest attention of
an expert, and Garrison hardly knew where a racket began or ended.

At the finish he was covered with perspiration and confusion, while his
opponent, apparently, had not begun to warm up. By mutual consent, they
occupied a seat underneath a spreading magnolia-tree, and then the girl
insisted upon Garrison resuming his coat. They were like two children.

"You'll get cold; you're not strong," said the girl finally, with the
manner of a very old and experienced mother. She was four years younger
than Garrison. "Put it on; you're not strong. That's right. Always
obey."

"I am strong," persisted Garrison, flushing. He felt very like a
schoolboy.

The girl eyed him critically, calmly.

"Oh, but you're not; not a little bit. Do you know you're
very--very--rickety? Very rickety, indeed."

Garrison eyed his flannels in visible perturbation. They flapped about
his thin, wiry shanks most disagreeably. He was painfully conscious of
his elbows, of his thin chest. Painfully conscious that the girl was
physical perfection, he was a parody of manhood. He looked up, with a
smile, and met the girl's frank eyes.

"I think rickety is just the word," he agreed, spanning a wrist with a
finger and thumb.

"You cannot play tennis, can you?" asked the girl dryly. "Not a lit