The tall, tired man bent down and kissed his mother.  “Mummy, I’m not God Almighty.  But I’ll do my damdest for anything you want.  Show me the paragon.”

The paragon shot up, with the small unevenness which was his limp, and faced the big doctor on a level.  The two pairs of eyes from their uncommon height, looked inquiringly into each other.

“I hear you have my name,” spoke Dr. Cabell tersely.

“Yes, sir,” said David, “And I’m glad.”  And the doctor knew that he also liked the paragon.

Lunch was an epic meal above and below stairs.  Jeems had been fetched by that black Mercury Jackson, messenger today of the gods of joy.  And the two old souls had been told by Mrs. Cabell that never again should they work hard or be anxious or want for anything.  The sensation-loving colored servants rejoiced in the events as a personal jubilee, and made much of Aunt Basha and Unc’ Jeems till their old heads reeled.  Above stairs the scroll unrolled more or loss decorously, yet in magic colors unbelievable.  Somehow David had told about Annesley and Jarvis last night.

“Somebody knitted him a whole dozen pairs of socks!” he commented, “Really she did.  He said so.  Think of a girl being as good to a chap as that.”

“I’ll knit you a dozen,” Miss Eleanor Cabell capped his sentence, like the Amen at the end of a High Church prayer.  “I’ll begin this afternoon.”

“And, David,” said Mrs. Cabell—­for it had got to be “David” and “Cousin Virginia” by now—­“David, when you get your commission, I’ll have your field glass ready, and a few other things.”

Dr. Cabell lifted his eyes from his chop.  “You’ll spoil that boy,” he stated.  “And, mother, I pointed out that I’m not the Almighty, even on joints, I haven’t looked at that game leg yet.  I said it might be curable.”

“That boy” looked up, smiling, with long years of loneliness and lameness written in the back of his glance.  “Please don’t make ’em stop, doctor,” he begged.  “I won’t spoil easily.  I haven’t any start.  And this is a fairy-story to me—­wonderful people like you letting me—­letting me belong.  I can’t believe I won’t wake up.  Don’t you imagine it will go to my head.  It won’t.  I’m just so blamed—­grateful.”

The deep young voice trailed, and the doctor made haste to answer.  “You’re all right, my lad,” he said, “As soon as lunch is over you come into the surgery and I’ll have a glance at the leg.”  Which was done.

After half an hour David came out, limping, pale and radiant.  “I can’t believe it,” he spoke breathless.  “He says—­it’s a simple—­operation.  I’ll walk—­like other men.  I’ll be right for—­the service.”  He choked.

At that Mrs. Cabell sped across the room and put up hands either side of the young face and drew it down and kissed the lad whom she did not, this morning, know to be in existence.  “You blessed boy,” she whispered, “you shall fight for America, and you’ll be our soldier, and we’ll be your people.”  And David, kissing her again, looked over her head and saw Eleanor glowing like a rose, and with a swift, unphrased shock of happiness felt in his soul the wonder of a heaven that might happen.  Then they were all about the fire, half-crying, laughing, as people do on top of strong feelings.