“We use all the drawing powers we have, Bim and I.”

“Do you mean to say,” said she, bending forward, “that you are conducting a mission—­here, in this place?  When you ought to be just trying to get well?  Oh, what would Doctor Brainard say?” Her tone was full of consternation.

Brown threw back his head and laughed, a big, hearty laugh which did not sound at all like that of an invalid.

“Brainard seems to be your special anxiety,” he said.  “Send him down to see me.  I’ll make him some flapjacks.  If there’s any one who appreciates good cookery it’s Brainard.”

“Don,” said his sister slowly, studying the face before her, “what are you trying to do?”

“Accomplish a little something while I’m marking time.”

“You ought to be resting!”

“I am.  This is child’s play; compared with the parish of St. Timothy’s.  And it’s lots more fun!”

“You’re an ascetic!”

“Never.  No crusts and water for me—­coffee and flapjacks every time.”

Once more she bent toward him.  “You are an ascetic.  To live in this place, and wear—­What are you wearing?  Old clothes and a—­What on earth is that scarf pin?  A ten-cent piece?”

He put up his hand.  “Benson, the little old watchmaker on the corner, gave me that.  No, it’s not a dime.  It pleases him immensely to see me wear it.  It’s not bad, Sue.  Nonsense!”

“It’s not good—­cheap!”

He sat smiling up at her, while she regarded him in silence for a minute.  Then she broke out again: 

“Why—­why do you do it?  Haven’t you worked hard enough in your great parish, without allowing yourself to spoil this rest you so much need?”

“Sue,” said her brother, “the best cure for certain kinds of overwork is merely more work, only of a different sort.  I can’t be idle and contented.  Can you?”

“Idle!  I should like to be idle.  I’m rushed to death, all the time.  It’s killing me.”

“Dressmakers and hairdressers—­and dinners and bridge and the whole routine of your set,” said he.  “It is indeed a hard life—­I wonder you stand it.”

“Don’t be ironic!”

“I’m not ironic.  I realized, long ago, that it’s the hardest life in the world—­and pays the least.”

She flushed.  “I have my charities,” she reminded him.  “I’m not utterly useless.  And my clubs—­belonging to them is a duty I owe other women.  I try to fulfill it.”

“But you’re not happy.”

“Happy!  I’ve forgotten the meaning of the word.  To tell the honest truth, Don, I’ve been feeling for a long while that I didn’t care—­how soon it ended.”

“Poor little sister!”

A crashing blow upon the door startled Mrs. Breckenridge so that she cried out under her breath.  Brown went to the door.  A furious gust of wind hurled it wide open beneath his hand, but there was no one upon the doorstep.  No one?  At his feet lay a bundle, from which sounded a wailing cry.  He picked it up, looked up and down a vacant street, closed the door, and came back to Sue Breckenridge by the fire.