“Maybe he realized that he was slipping fast and thought a fine action might give him a hand-hold on life again.  You tell me he didn’t like the stuff.”

“He shuddered when he drank.”

“Well, that’s a hopeful sign.  I’ll test him out later; see if there is any craving.  Give me the books.  I’ll put them in your room; then we’ll have a look-see.”

The patient was asleep.  According to Wu, the young man had not opened his eyes once during the afternoon.

So Ruth returned to her room and sorted the books and magazines the doctor had loaned her, inspected the titles and searched for pictures.  And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson’s verse—­her first adventure into poetry.  The hymnal lyrics had never stirred her; she had memorized and sung them parrot-wise.  But here was new music, tender and kindly and whimsical, that first roved to and fro in the mind and then cuddled up in the heart.  Anything that had love in it!

The doctor comprehended that he also had his work cut out.  While the girl kept the patient from dwelling upon his misfortunes, whatever these were, he himself would have to keep the girl from brooding over hers.  So he made merry at the dinner table, told comic stories, and was astonished at the readiness with which she grasped the comic side of life.  His curiosity put itself into a question.

“Old Morgan the trader,” she explained, “used to save me Tit-Bits.  He would read the jokes and illustrate them; and after a time I could see the point of a joke without having it explained to me.  I believe it amused him.  I was a novelty.  He was always in a state of semi-intoxication, but he was always gentle with me.  Probably he taught me what a joke was merely to irritate my father; for suddenly Father stopped my going to the store for things and sent our old Kanaka cook instead.  She had been to San Francisco, and what I learned about the world was from her.  Thank you for the books.”

“You were born on the island?”

“I believe so.”

“You don’t remember your mother?”

“Oh, no; she died when I was very little.”

She showed him the locket; and he studied the face.  It was equally as beautiful but not quite so fine as the daughter’s.  He returned the locket without comment.

“Perhaps things would have been different if she had lived.”

“No doubt,” he replied.  “Mine died while I was over here.  Perhaps that is why I lost my ambition.”

“I am sorry.”

“It is life.”

There was a pause.  “He never let me keep a dog or a cat about the house.  But after a time I learned the ways of the parrakeets, and they would come down to me like doves in the stories.  I never made any effort to touch them; so by and by they learned to light fearlessly on my arms and shoulders.  And what a noise they made!  This is how I used to call them.”

She pursed her lips and uttered a whistle, piercingly shrill and high; and instantly she became the object of intense astonishment on the part of the other diners.  She was quite oblivious to the sensation she had created.