knew Molly Shannon. She wiped the sweat from
his brow and face tenderly, and though her hand had not trembled before
in her ministrations, it trembled now. Her heart was beating with
gratitude for she knew he was saved. She gave him milk and brandy, after
a few moments, then sat down to her work. Fairfax, speaking each word
distinctly, said--

"I reckon I've been pretty sick, haven't I?"

"You're all right now, Misther Fairfax."

He smiled faintly. He was indifferent, very weak, but he felt a kind of
mild happiness steal over him as he lay there, a sense of being looked
after, cared for, and of having beaten the enemy which had clutched his
throat and chest. He heard the voices of Molly and the doctor, heard her
pretty Irish accent, half-opened his eyes and saw her hat and plaid
red-and-black shawl hanging by the window. The plaid danced before his
eyes, became a signal flag, and, watching it, he drowsed and then fell
into the profound sleep which means recovery.

CHAPTER IX

Fairfax took Molly Shannon's presence for granted, accepted her
services, obeyed her docilely and thanked her with his smile which
regained its old radiance as he grew stronger. Lying shaven, with his
hair cut at last--for she had listened to his pleading and sent for a
barber--in clean sheets and jacket, he looked boyish and thin, and to
the Irish girl he was beautiful. She kept her eyes from him for fear
that he should see her passion and her adoration, and she effaced
herself in the nurse, the mother, the sister, in the angel.

Sure, she hadn't sent word to any one. How should she? Sorry an idea she
had where he came from or who were his folks.

"I am glad. I wouldn't have worried my mother."

And answering the question that was bounding in Molly's heart, he said--

"There's no one else to frighten or to reassure. I must write to my
mother to-day."

As he said this he remembered that he would be obliged to tell her of
little Gardiner, and the blood rose to his cheek, a spasm seized his
heart, and his past rushed over him and smote him like a great wave.

Molly sat sewing in the window, mending his shirts, the light outlining
her form and her head like a red flower. He covered his face with his
hand and a smothered groan escaped him, and he fell back on the pillow.
Molly ran to him, terrified: "a relapse," that's what it was. The doctor
had warned her.

"God in heaven!" she cried, and knowing nothing better to do, she put