“The game’s worth the candle, Len,” he said.

“Even though you’ve been burning the candle at both ends, dear?  Yes, I know it is.  I’m so glad—­so glad!”

“We’re sworn friends, Van and I. Can you believe it?  Len, he’s simply the finest ever.”

She smiled at him.  “I’m sure you think so; it’s just what you would think, my generous boy.”

“I’ll prove it to you by and by, when I’ve had a wink of sleep.  A bath, breakfast, and two hours of rest—­then I’ll be in service again.  Van’s resting comfortably, practically out of danger, and—­Len, his eyes remind me of a sick child’s who has waked out of a delirium to find his mother by his side.”

“Is that the way his eyes look when they meet yours?”

He nodded.  “Of course.  That’s how I know.”

“O Red,” she said softly—­“to think of the eyes that look at you like that!”

“They don’t all,” he answered as the two went up the stairs side by side.  “But Van—­well, he’s been through the deep waters, and he’s found—­a footing on rock where he expected shifting sands.  Ah, there’s my boy!  Give him to me quick!”

The Little-Un, surging plumply out of the nursery, tumbled into his father’s arms, and submitted, shouting with glee, to the sort of huggings, kissings, and general inspection to which he was happily accustomed when Burns came home after a longer absence than usual.

Just before he went back to the hospital, refreshed by an hour’s longer sleep than he had meant to take, because Ellen would not wake him sooner, Burns opened the pile of mail which had accumulated during his absence.  He sat on the arm of the blue couch, tossing the letters one by one upon the table behind it, in two piles, one for his personal consideration, the other for Miss Mathewson’s answering.  Ellen, happily relaxing in a corner of the couch, her eyes watching the letter opening, saw her husband’s eyes widen as he stooped to pick up a small blue paper which had fallen from the missive he had just slitted.  As he unfolded the blue slip and glanced at it, an astonished whistle leaped to his lips.

“Well, by the powers—­what’s this?” he murmured.  “A New York draft for a thousand dollars, inclosed in a letter which says nothing except a typewritten ‘From One of the most grateful of all grateful patients.’  Len, what do you think of that?  Who on earth sent it?  I haven’t had a rich patient who hasn’t paid his bill, or who won’t pay it in due form when he gets around to it.  And the poor ones don’t send checks of this size.”

“I can’t imagine,” she said, studying the few words on the otherwise blank sheet, and the postmark on the typewritten envelope, which showed the letter also to have come from New York.  “You haven’t had a patient lately who was travelling—­a hotel case, or anything of that sort?”

He shook his head.  “None that didn’t pay before he left—­and none that seemed particularly grateful anyhow.  Well, I must be off.  The thousand’s all right, wherever it came from, eh?  And I want to get back to Van.  I’d put that draft in the fire rather than go back to find the slightest slip in his case.  I think, if I should, I’d lose my nerve at last.”