and with wise tact and careful forethought
for the comfort and well-being of her unknown guest, quietly accepted
the position she had brought upon herself as having given shelter and
lodging to her "father's friend," thus smoothing all difficulties away
for him, whether he recovered from his illness or not. Had he died, she
would have borne the expenses of his burial without a word of other
explanation than that which she had offered by way of appeasing the
always greedy curiosity of any community of human beings who are
gathered in one small town or village,--and if he recovered, she was
prepared to treat him in very truth as her "father's friend."

"For,"--she argued with herself, quite simply--"I am sure father would
have been kind to him, and when once _he_ was kind, it was impossible
not to be his friend."

And, little by little, Helmsley struggled back to life,--life that was
very weak and frail indeed, but still, life that contained the whole
essence and elixir of being,--a new and growing interest. Little by
little his brain cleared and recovered its poise,--once more he found
himself thinking of things that had been done, and of things that were
yet worth doing. Watching Mary Deane as she went softly to and fro in
constant attendance on his needs, he was divided in his mind between
admiration, gratitude, and--a lurking suspicion, of which he was
ashamed. As a business man, he had been taught to look for interested
motives lying at the back of every action, bad or good,--and as his
health improved, and calm reason again asserted its sway, he found it
difficult and well-nigh impossible to realise or to believe that this
woman, to whom he was a perfect stranger, no more than a vagrant on the
road, could have given him so much of her time, attention, and care,
unless she had dimly supposed him to be something other than he had
represented himself. Unable yet to leave his bed, he lay, to all
appearances, quietly contented, acknowledging her gentle ministrations
with equally gentle words of thanks, while all the time he was mentally
tormenting himself with doubts and fears. He knew that during his
illness he had been delirious,--surely in that delirium he might have
raved and talked of many things that would have yielded the entire
secret of his identity. This thought made him restless,--and one
afternoon when Mary came in with the deliciously prepared cup of tea
which she always gave him about four o'clock, he tur