Jack’s room in the wing of the cottage had a south door over-looking the garden, and it was a happy day for the entire household when he asked to know what was going on out there.  He could not see the garden from the corner where his bed stood, but the nurse propped a large mirror up against a chair in a way to reflect the entire scene.  Norman was vigorously hoeing weeds, and Mary, armed with a large magnifying glass, was on a hunt for the worms that were threatening the young plants.

The scene seemed to amuse Jack immensely, and entirely aroused out of his apathy, he began to ask questions, and to suggest various dishes that he would like to sample as soon as the garden could furnish them.  Every morning after that he called for the mirror to see how much the garden had grown in the night.  It was an event when the first tiny radish was brought in for him to taste, and a matter of family rejoicing, when the first crisp head of lettuce was made into a salad for him, because his enjoyment of it was so evident.

About that time he was able to be propped up in bed a little while each day, and was so much like his old cheerful self that Mary wrote long hopeful letters to Joyce and Betty about his improvement.  He joked with the nurse and talked so confidently about going back to work, that Mary began to feel that her worst fears had been unfounded, and that much of her mental anguish on his account had been unnecessary.  Sometimes she shared his hopefulness to such an extent that she half regretted leaving school before the end of the year.  When the girls wrote about the approaching Commencement and the good times they were having, and of how they missed her, she thought how pleasant it would have been to have had at least the one whole year with them.  She was afraid she would be sorry all the rest of her life that she had missed those experiences of Commencement time.  The exercises were always so beautiful at Warwick Hall.

She could not wholly regret her return, however, when she saw how much Jack depended on her for entertainment.  He was ready to hear all about her escapades at school now, and hours at a time she talked or read to him, choosing with unerring instinct the tales best suited to his mood.  Phil kept them supplied with all the current magazines.  Phil had been so thoughtful about that, and his occasional letters to Jack had made red-letter days on Mary’s calendar.  They had been almost as good as visits, they were so charged with his jolly, light-hearted spirit.

But it happened, that the story she intended to read Jack first, The Jester’s Sword, still lay unopened on her table.  She could not even suggest his likeness to Aldebaran while he talked so hopefully of what he intended to do as soon as he was out of bed.  It was evident that he did not realize the utter hopelessness of his condition, or he could not have made such big plans for the future.