Then we were very still for some time, and presently some one coughed rather hard outside, and fumbled with the door, and the nice doctor boy came in.

“I mustn’t allow you people to talk too long,” he said.  “It is time he had a good drink of milk, and after that he must have some more sleep, and we’ll have him topside up in no time.”

Then Mr. Barnett came in too, but he never said a word.  There was just a glance, a pressure of hands, and that was all, but it seemed to mean ever so much to them.

So after a short time I went away, and the bright sun was streaming down upon our poor, little, smelly Sweetapple Cove, that was really like a corner of Paradise.

And now, Aunt Jennie, several more days have gone by, and John is getting stronger and stronger every hour.

Yesterday, for the first time, he sat up in a long deck chair that had been brought up from the Snowbird, and I sat beside him, with my knitting, which was only a pretence, for it lay on my lap, idly.  It seemed to me that I had a million things to talk about, but when I spoke he answered in brief little weary words, so that I became afraid I might tire him.  There is no porch to the little house, so he sat indoors in front of the widely opened door, whence he could see the cove, glittering in the sunshine, and the flakes covered with the silver-grey fish that were drying.

We remained in silence for a long time, and my hand rested on his, that was stretched out on the arm of the chair.  Then he turned to me.

“Dearest,” he said, “I am but sorry company for you, after all these days of devoted attention on your part.”

“You are my own dear John,” I answered.  “I wish—­I wish I knew that you were as happy as I.”

“Listen, Helen,” he said.  “There is something that you must know.”

And then, slowly, he told me a tale that began with his boyhood.  There was a little girl, and he was very fond of her, and many times he told her she must be his little wife.  And always she assented, so that gradually, as the years went by, it had become a habit of his mind to think of the days to come, when they would be married.  Then he had gone away to a little college.  When he returned for the holidays he always saw her again, but when he spoke of marrying her she blushed, and was timid, for she was passing away from childhood.  In later days he saw less of her, but he always wrote long letters to his little comrade.  After a few years he went abroad to study, but they corresponded often, telling of their plans and ambitions.  One day he heard that she was going to New York to become a trained nurse, and he had finished his work abroad, so he took a steamer and went there too.  On the days when she was at liberty for a few hours he met her, and those ideas of his boyhood became stronger than ever, and he asked her to marry him.  Her reply was that they were too young yet and that they