severely furnished, but his attention was for the moment riveted to a gilt frame upon the wall beside him bearing the text, “God Bless Our Home,” and then on another frame on the opposite wall which admonished him to “Watch and Pray.”  Beside them hung an engraving of the “Raising of Lazarus,” and a Hogarthian lithograph of “The Drunkard’s Progress.”  Mr. Hamlin closed his eyes; he was dreaming certainly—­not one of those wild, fantastic visions that had so miserably filled the past long nights of pain and suffering, but still a dream!  At last, opening one eye stealthily, he caught the flash of the sunlight upon the crystal and silver articles of his dressing case, and that flash at once illuminated his memory.  He remembered his long weeks of illness and the devotion of Dr. Duchesne.  He remembered how, when the crisis was past, the doctor had urged a complete change and absolute rest, and had told him of a secluded rancho in some remote locality kept by an honest Western pioneer whose family he had attended.  He remembered his own reluctant assent, impelled by gratitude to the doctor and the helplessness of a sick man.  He now recalled the weary journey thither, his exhaustion and the semi-consciousness of his arrival in a bewildering wind on a shadowy hilltop.  And this was the place!

He shivered slightly, and ducked his head under the cover again.  But the brightness of the sun and some exhilarating quality in the air tempted him to have another outlook, avoiding as far as possible the grimly decorated walls.  If they had only left him his faithful servant he could have relieved himself of that mischievous badinage which always alternately horrified and delighted that devoted negro.  But he was alone—­absolutely alone—­in this conventicle!

Presently he saw the door open slowly.  It gave admission to the small round face and yellow ringlets of a little girl, and finally to her whole figure, clasping a doll nearly as large as herself.  For a moment she stood there, arrested by the display of Mr. Hamlin’s dressing case on the table.  Then her glances moved around the room and rested upon the bed.  Her blue eyes and Mr. Hamlin’s brown ones met and mingled.  Without a moment’s hesitation she moved to the bedside.  Taking her doll’s hands in her own, she displayed it before him.

“Isn’t it pitty?”

Mr. Hamlin was instantly his old self again.  Thrusting his hand comfortably under the pillow, he lay on his side and gazed at it long and affectionately.  “I never,” he said in a faint voice, but with immovable features, “saw anything so perfectly beautiful.  Is it alive?”

“It’s a dolly,” she returned gravely, smoothing down its frock and straightening its helpless feet.  Then seized with a spontaneous idea, like a young animal she suddenly presented it to him with both hands and said,—­

“Kiss it.”

Mr. Hamlin implanted a chaste salute on its vermilion cheek.  “Would you mind letting me hold it for a little?” he said with extreme diffidence.