gement. She was a good patient,
Sally: her cheerfulness and animation, her belief and trust in the
doctors and the nurses won their hearts. There were many black hours
for her; home-sickness, pain, doubt, these were hard things to bear.
In the still of the night she often lay sleepless, fighting with the
sorrow and longing that oppresses, and striving to repress the
exclamations that pain brought to her lips. And she won. "She always
was a winner," William used to say, "and always will be."

There were no lack of visitors to Sally during her stay in the
hospital. Her own relations made frequent trips to the city to see
her. Miss Whimple was her most constant caller, and the next was--not
William. He did manage to call often, but not so often as Lucien, and,
somehow, Sally began to look forward to Lucien's visits with delightful
thrills of anticipation. Miss Whimple smiled about it, and William
laughed. Sally smiled, too, but, such a smile! She enjoyed William's
visits immensely. He was seldom serious with her, and he always had
funny stories to tell. In fact, he clothed the most commonplace
incidents of the day with humour when he spoke of them, and shamelessly
invented stories when he had no actual foundations on which to build
them. And Sally always knew when he was spinning yarns, and William
knew that she did. Miss Whimple was rather disappointed over William's
attitude toward the girl, and so expressed herself to Epstein one day.
The old comedian displayed unwonted heat in his answer. "Such
foolishness," he said sharply, "give the lad a chance. There is a
great career before William. If he begins thinking of love, or thinks
he is thinking seriously of love now, it will be the end for him. I
hope you have not been trying to put any such nonsensical ideas into
his head."

Miss Whimple did not answer. The gruffness of the old man hurt a
little. He was quick to understand her silence, and after a while said
gently, "I beg your pardon: I did not mean to be angry, I--I--the boy
and his future are very dear to me--you--I----"

She laid a hand on his arm. "I know--I know," she said. "I'm a
foolish old maid. You are right about William, but, sometimes, those
who have lost much dream pleasant dreams and build fairy castles for
those who help to make their sorrow easier to bear." And then they
talked of other things, of William's future, of Epstein's success, of
Tommy Watson's boy.

Meanwhile, Sal