Mel had told Lane the circumstances attending his illness.  It had been late in February when she and her father had called for him at his lodgings.  He had collapsed in the cab.  They took him to the Iden home where he was severely ill during March.  In April he began to improve, although he did not come to his senses.  One day Mr. Iden brought Jacob Lane, an uncle of Lane’s, to see him.  Lane’s uncle had been at odds with the family for many years.  There had been a time when he had cared much for his nephew Daren.  The visit had evidently revived the old man’s affection, for the result was that Jacob Lane offered Daren the use of a cottage and several acres of land on Sycamore River, just out of town.  Joshua Iden had seen to the overhauling of the cottage; and as soon as the weather got warm, Doctor Bronson had consented to Lane’s removal to the country.  And in a few days after his arrival at the cottage, Lane recovered consciousness.

“Well, this beats me,” said Lane, for the hundredth time.  “Uncle Jake letting us have this farm.  I thought he hated us all.”

“Daren, it was your going to war—­and coming back—­that you were ill and fell to so sad a plight.  I think if your uncle had known, he’d have helped you.”

“Mel, I couldn’t ask anybody for help,” said Lane.  “Don’t you understand that?”

“You were a stubborn fellow,” mused Mel.

“Me?  Never.  I’m the meekest of mortals....  Mel, I know every rock along the river here.  This is just above where at flood time the Sycamore cuts across that rocky flat below, and makes a bad rapid.  There’s a creek above and a big woods.  I used to fish and hunt there a good deal.”

Two weeks passed by and Daren felt himself slowly but surely getting stronger.  Every morning when he came down to breakfast he felt a little better, had a little more color in his pale cheeks.  At first he could not eat, but as the days went by he regained an appetite which, to Mel’s delight, manifestly grew stronger.  No woman could have been brighter and merrier.  She laughed at the expression on his face when he saw her hands red from hot dish-water, and she would not allow him to help her.  The boast she had made to him of her housekeeping abilities had not been an idle one.  She prepared the meals and kept the cottage tidy, and went about other duties in a manner that showed she was thoroughly conversant with them.

The way in which she had absolutely put aside the past, her witty sallies and her innocent humor, her habit of singing while at work, the depth of her earnest conversation; in all, the sweet wholesome strength and beauty of her nature had a remarkable effect on Lane.  He began to live again.  It was simply impossible to be morbid in her presence.  While he was with her he escaped from himself.

The day came when he felt strong enough to take a walk.  He labored up the hillside toward a wood.  Thereafter he went every day and walked farther every time.