, it
seemed.

They told him the truth because he would have nothing else, although
they shrank from doing it until the last moment of their stay. They knew
it would be like giving him his death-blow. Mary, standing in the door,
saw the look of unspeakable horror that stole slowly over his face, then
his helpless sinking back among the pillows, and the twitching of his
hands as he clenched them convulsively. Not a word or a groan escaped
him, but the wild despair of his set face and staring eyes was more
than she could endure. She rushed out of the room and out of the house
to the little loft above the woodshed, where no one could hear her
frantic sobbing. It was hours before she ventured back into the house.
It would only add to his misery to see her distress, she knew, so she
left him to the little mother's ministrations.

Anticipating such a result, the surgeons had brought several appliances
to make his confinement less irksome. There was a hammock arrangement
with pulleys, by which he might be swung into different positions, and
out into a wheeled chair. They fastened the screws into walls and
ceiling, put the apparatus in place and carefully tested it before
leaving. Then they were at the end of their skill. They could do nothing
more. There was nothing that could be done.

Several times in the days that followed, the nurse spoke of the brave
way in which Jack seemed to be meeting his fate. But Mrs. Ware shook her
head sadly. She knew why no complaint escaped him. She had seen him act
the Spartan before to spare her. Mary, too, knew what his persistent
silence meant. He was not always so careful to veil the suffering which
showed through his eyes when he was alone with her. She knew that half
the time when he appeared to be listening to what she was reading, he
was so absorbed in his bitter thoughts that he did not hear a word. "_An
eagle, broken-winged and drooping in a cage, he gloomed upon his lot and
cursed the vital force within that would not let him die._"

One morning, when he had been settled in his wheeled chair, she brought
out the story of the Jester's Sword, saying, tremulously, "Will you do
something for me? Jack? Read this little book yourself. I know you don't
halfway listen to what I read any more, and I don't blame you, but this
seems to have been written just on purpose for you."

He took the book from her listlessly, and opened it because she wished
it. Watching him from the doorway, she wa