ce. "As for the
repairs, I shall make them of course. What Mr. Drake asks is for the
house to be restored to its former appearance (aren't those the words?)
not enlarged. Well, I must tell you frankly that I can't afford to pay
for labor. I will guarantee to make the Mirador look just as it used to
look, and do it all with my own hands. I can't work very fast,
because--you can see, I've been disabled. But I shall have an incentive
to finish as soon as possible, if I'm actually living in the house."

"You had a severe accident, I suppose?" the curious agent could not
resist suggesting.

"It was--in a way--an accident," said Denin, and his smile was rather
grim.

When he had paid for the place, had bought materials for restoring the
house and improving the garden, had collected a few bits of furniture
and added some other necessaries, the owner of the Mirador had only
seven hundred dollars left out of his fortune. Nor did he at that time
know how he was to earn more dollars. Nevertheless he had come as near
to be being content as he could ever hope to be in this world. He had
given his own old home to Barbara, and there was no place for memories
of him there. But she had given her old home to him (unconsciously, it
was true; yet it seemed to be her gift) and memories of Barbara would
be his companions each hour of the day. Besides, he had the task of
restoring every marred feature of the little Mirador exactly as she had
described it to him. He bought a ladder and plaster and paint, and did
mason's work and painter's work with a good will. In the four rooms
which were more or less intact--bedroom, sitting-room, miniature
kitchen and bath--he put a few odds and ends of second-hand furniture,
enough for a hermit. And when his labor of love on the house was
accomplished, he set to work in the garden. Some day, he told himself,
he should find in the garden the greatest solace of all.

In his deep absorption, he forgot the book for days on end. Even in his
dreams he did not remember it, for in the room where Barbara had lain
ill with scarlet fever, dreams lent her to him, a childish Barbara,
very kind and sweet. He knew the date on which the book was to come
out, but he had lost count by a day or two, therefore it was a shock of
surprise to open a parcel which arrived one morning by post, and to see
six purple volumes. On each cover, in gold lettering, was printed "The
War Wedding: John Sanbourne."

His hand shook a litt