“The Little-Un’s or Bob’s?” King asked his other visitor.

Bob was an adopted child, taken by Burns before his marriage, but the little Chester’s parents made no difference between them, and a birthday celebration for the older boy was sure to be quite as much of an occasion as for the two-year-old.

“Bob’s,” Mrs. Burns explained.  “He is ten; we can’t believe it.  And he has set his heart on having Miss Linton at home for his party.  He has read her little book almost out of its covers, and she has been doing some place-cards for his guests—­the prettiest things!” Ellen opened a small package she was carrying and showed King the cards.

He gazed at them approvingly.  “They’re the jolliest I ever saw; the youngsters will be crazy over them.  For a convalescent it strikes me Miss Linton has been the busiest known to the hospital.”

“You, yourself, have kept me rather busy, Mr. King,” the girl observed.

“So I have.  I’m wondering what I’m to do when you are at Doctor Burns’s and I at home.”

She smiled.  “I shall be there only a week if I keep on gaining as fast as I am now.”

“A fortnight,” interpolated Mrs. Burns, “is the earliest possible date of your leaving us.  And not then unless we think you fit.”

“Did you ever know of such kindness?” Anne Linton asked softly of King.  “To a perfect stranger?”

He nodded.  “Nothing you could tell me of their kindness could surprise me.  About that fortnight—­would it be asking a great deal of you to keep on sending me that daily note?”

“Isn’t there a telephone in your own room at home?” she asked.

“Yes—­how did you know?”

“I guessed it.  Wouldn’t a little telephone talk do quite as well—­or better—­than a letter?”

“It would be very nice,” admitted King.  “But I should hate to do without the letter.  The days are each a month long at present, you know, and each hour is equal to twenty-four.  Make it a letter, too, will you, please?”

Miss Linton looked at Mrs. Burns.  “Do you think circumstances still alter cases?” she inquired.

Her profile, as King caught it again, struck him as a perfect outline.  To think of this girl starting out again, travelling alone, selling books from door to door!

“I think you will be quite warranted in being very good to Mr. King—­while his hours drag as he describes,” Ellen assented cordially.

“As soon as I can sit up at any sort of decent angle I can do a lot of work on paper,” King asserted.  “Then I’ll make the time fly.  Meanwhile—­it’s all right.”

They talked together for a little, then King sent for Franz, who came and played superbly, his eager eyes oftenest on Jordan King, like those of an adoring and highly intelligent dog.  Anne watched Franz, and King watched Anne.  Mrs. Burns, seeming to watch nobody, noted with affectionate and somewhat concerned interest the apparent trend of the whole situation.  She could not help thinking, rather dubiously, of Mrs. Alexander King, Jordan’s mother.