le picture of it as she listened now: the
active, merry, brilliant boy who had worked and played all day and
danced half the night; who had lived, it almost seemed to her, two or
three lives in one. And then the change to the darkened room--helpless,
unable to move, with the added sorrow of his sweetheart's death, and
his mother's deliberate fostering of that sorrow. It was almost a shock
to see him in the wheel-chair at the foot of the table, his face lighted
with interest in what he and his friend were saying. What if he did care
for Louise Frey's memory still! He'd had such a hard time that anything
Phyllis could do for him oughtn't to be too much!

When Dr. Hewitt went at last Phyllis accompanied him to the door. She
kept him there for a few minutes, talking to him about Allan and making
him promise to come often. He agreed with her that, this much progress
made, a good deal more might follow. He promised to come back very soon,
and see as much of them as possible.

Allan, watching them, out of earshot, from the living-room where he had
been wheeled, saw Phyllis smiling warmly up at his friend, lingering in
talk with him, giving him both hands in farewell; and he saw, too,
Hewitt's rapt interest and long leave-taking. At last the door closed,
and Phyllis came back to him, flushed and animated. He realized,
watching her return with that swift lightness of foot her long years of
work had lent her, how young and strong and lovely she was, with the
rose-color in her cheeks and the light from above making her hair
glitter. And suddenly her slim young strength and her bright vitality
seemed to mock him, instead of being a comfort and support as
heretofore. A young, beautiful, kind girl like that--it was natural she
should like Hewitt. And it was going to come natural to Hewitt to like
Phyllis. He could see that plainly enough.

"Tired, Allan Harrington?" she asked brightly, coming over to him and
dropping a light hand on his chair, in a caressing little way she had
dared lately.... Kindness! Yes, she was the incarnation of kindness.
Doubtless she had spoken to and touched those little ragamuffins she had
told him of just so.

He had got into a habit of feeling that Phyllis belonged to him
absolutely. He had forgotten--what was it she had said to him that
afternoon, half in fun--but oh, doubtless half in earnest!--about
marrying him for a rose-garden? She had done just that. She had never
made any secret of it--why, ho