hose were sad, weary days which Wilford first passed upon his hospital
cot, and as he was not sick but crippled, he had ample time for
reviewing the past, which came up before his mind as vividly as if he
had been living again the scenes of bygone days. Of Katy he thought
continually, blaming himself much, but so strong was his pride and
selfishness, blaming her more for the trouble which had come upon them.
Why need she have taken the Genevra matter so to heart, going with it to
Morris and so bringing him into his present disagreeable situation. He
did not mean to be unjust or unkind toward Katy, but he looked upon her
as the direct cause of his being where he was. Had she never been seen
in the cars with Morris, he should not have left home as he did, and
might anticipate going back without a flush of shame and a dread of
meeting old friends, who would think less of him than they used to do. A
thousand times Wilford had repented of his rashness, but never by a word
had he admitted such repentance to any living being, and when on the
dark, rainy afternoon which first saw him in the hospital, he turned his
face to the wall and wept, he replied to one who said to him soothingly:

"Don't feel badly, my young friend. We will take as good care of you
here as if you were at home."

"It's the pain which brings the tears. I'd as soon be here as at home."

Gradually, however, there came a change, and Wilford grew softer in his
feelings, longing for home, or for the sight of a familiar face, and
half resolving more than once to send for Katy, who had offered to come,
and to whom he had replied: "It is not necessary." But as often as he
resolved his evil genius whispered: "She does not care to come here,"
and so the message was never sent, while the longing for home faces
brought on a nervous fever, which made him so irritable that his
attendants sometimes turned from him in disgust, thinking him the most
unreasonable man they had ever met. Once he dreamed Genevra was
there--that she came to him just as she was in her beautiful
girlhood--that her fingers threaded his hair as they used to do in their
happy days at Brighton--that her hand was on his brow, her breath upon
his face, and with a start he awoke just as the rustle of female
garments died away in the hall.

"The new nurse in the second ward has been in here," a comrade said.
"She seemed specially interested in you, and if she had not been a
stranger I should have said