head of the bed; and he looked like a great
mischievous boy, who had, in some way, gained a long-desired prize.

"See here!" he called. "Tell me I can't get up to-morrow? Why, I could
walk!"

They had a very merry time while he ate. Mary remembered that
afterwards, with a bruised wonder that laughter comes so cheap. Johnnie
talked incessantly, not any more of the wonders of the deep, but what he
meant to do when he got into the world again.

"How'd I come here in your house, any way?" he asked. "Mattie and Adam
put me here to get rid of me? Tell me all over again."

"I take care of folks, you know," answered Mary briefly. "I have, for
more'n two years. It's my business."

Johnnie looked at her a moment, crimsoning as he tried to speak.

"What you goin' to ask?"

Mary started. Then she answered steadily,--

"That's all right. I don't ask much, anyway; but when folks don't have
ready money, I never ask anything. There, you mustn't talk no more, even
if you are well. I've got to wash these dishes."

She left him to his meditations, and only once more that evening did
they speak together. When she came to the door, to say good-night, he
was flat among his pillows, listening for her.

"Say!" he called, "you come in. No, you needn't unless you want to; but
if ever I earn another cent of money, you'll see. And I ain't the only
friend you've got. There's a girl down in Southport would do anything in
the world for you, if she only knew."

Next morning, Johnnie walked weakly out of doors, despite his nurse's
cautions; for, not knowing what had happened to him, she was in a
wearying dark as to whether it might not happen again. After his
breakfast, he got a ride with Jacob Pease, who was going down Sudleigh
way, and Jacob came back without him. He bore a message, full of
gratitude, to Mary. At Sudleigh, Johnnie had telegraphed, to find out
whether the ship Firewing was still in port; and he had heard that he
must lose no time in joining her. He should never forget what Mary had
done for him. So Jacob said; but he was a man of tepid words, and
perhaps he remembered the message too coldly.

When Mattie came over, that afternoon, to make her call, she found the
house closed. Mary had gone on foot down into Tiverton, where old Mrs.
Lamson, who was sick with a fever, lay still in need. It was many weeks
before she came home again to Horn o' the Moon; and then Grandfather
Sinclair had broken his leg, so that interest in h