“May I—­see him?” pleaded Miss Winslow, as Dr. Mead placed a chair for her.

I wondered what he would have done if there had been some good reason why he should resist the pleading of her deep eyes.

“Why—­er—­for a minute—­yes,” he answered.  “Later, soon, he may see visitors longer, but just now I think for a few hours the less he is disturbed the better.”

The doctor excused himself for a moment to look at his patient and prepare him for the visit.  Meanwhile Miss Winslow waited in the reception room downstairs, still very pale and nervous.

Warrington was in much less pain now than he had been when we left and Dr. Mead decided that, since the nurse had made him so much more comfortable, no further drug was necessary.  In fact as his natural vitality due to his athletic habits and clean living asserted itself, it seemed as if his injuries which at first had looked so serious were not likely to prove as bad as the doctor had anticipated.

Still, he was badly enough as it was.  The new nurse smoothed out his pillows and deftly tried to conceal as much as she could that would suggest how badly he was injured and at last Violet Winslow was allowed to enter the room where the poor boy lay.

Miss Winslow never for a moment let her wonderful self-control fail her.  Quickly and noiselessly, like a ministering angel, she seemed to float rather than walk over the space from the door to the bed.

As she bent over him and whispered, “Mortimer!” the simple tone seemed to have an almost magic effect on him.

He opened his eyes which before had been languidly closed and gazed up at her face as if he saw a vision.  Slowly the expression on his face changed as he realized that it was indeed Violet herself.  In spite of the pain of his hurts which must have been intense a smile played over his features, as if he realized that it would never do to let her know how serious had been his condition.

As she bent over her hand had rested on the white covers of the bed.  Feebly, in spite of the bandages that swathed the arm nearest her, he put out his own brawny hand and rested it on hers.  She did not withdraw it, but passed the other hand gently over his throbbing forehead.  Never have I seen a greater transformation in an invalid than was evident in Mortimer Warrington.  No tonic in all the pharmacopoeia of Dr. Mead could have worked a more wonderful change.

Not a word was said by either Warrington or Violet for several seconds.  They seemed content just to gaze into each other’s faces, oblivious to us.

Warrington was the first to break the silence, in answer to what he knew must be her unspoken question.

“Your aunt—­gambling,” he murmured feebly, trying hard to connect his words so as to appear not so badly off as he had when he had spoken before.  “I didn’t know—­till they told me—­that the estate owned it—­was coming to tell you—­going to cancel the lease—­close it up—­no one ever lose money there again—­”