g her a song, that's what I'll do," James Mandeville cried
eagerly. "You wait."

He disappeared into the next room, where presently his voice was heard
uplifted in "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and if the tune was a trifle
uncertain, nothing was lacking in spirit. Through the open door he
marched, holding the morning paper before him, and proceeding the
length of the shop.

"One in hope of _doctor_, one in _cherry tree_,"

he proclaimed lustily.

Even Marion must smile a little at this.

"It is beautiful," said Norah, "though I don't quite understand it. I
seem to feel a sort of connection between the doctor and the cherry
tree, too."

"There's a heap more of verses," James Mandeville assured her. "Do you
feel better?" This to Marion.

Who could resist? She laughed as she drew him to her and kissed him.
"I am cross this morning, and you are a nice boy to sing for me. I
make life very hard for Miss Norah. Suppose you go tell her I am
sorry."

James Mandeville trotted off obediently to find Norah, who had left
the room a moment before. Marion, having finished with the plants, was
absently looking out of the window when the door opened with a jerk
and some one bounced into the shop. Turning with a start, she
recognized the personage Norah called Giant Despair.

"What do you mean?--" he began, then paused and stared about in
bewilderment. "Where am I?" he demanded; and as Marion advanced he
removed his hat, displaying a massive head covered with shaggy gray
hair.

"We call this the Pleasant Street Shop," she answered.

"See here--I thought it was the plumber's. I am getting so blind I
shall soon have to be led around. So you call this a shop? Does it
belong to you? For I can tell you now you have made a mistake in
coming here." His voice was gruff, and as he spoke he peered this way
and that, as if to get some idea of his surroundings.

"If we can't make a success here, we will go elsewhere, but we are
doing very well," Marion said, "The plumber is on the next block."

"I know that now. I am not losing my mind as well as my sight."

Something impelled Marion to say, "I am sorry about your eyes. Can't
something be done?"

"Sorry? How can you be sorry? Nobody knows anything about it who
hasn't tried it."

"I have lived in constant fear of blindness for a year." Marion seldom
spoke of her eyes, but the sight of trouble like her own broke down
her usual reticence.

The old man softened. "You have