“Did she know you went with him?” asked Jack. “No; but she knows I ran away.” “Well, you ran away from home to study how to be an artist, don't you see? Some day she'll find out you ARE ONE; that settles the whole thing.” They were both quite cheerful again when Aunt Chloe returned to clear the table, especially Jack, who was in the best spirits, with preternaturally bright eyes and a somewhat rare color on his cheeks. Aunt Chloe, who had noticed that his breathing was hurried at times, watched him narrowly, and when later he slipped from the room, followed him into the passage. He was leaning against the wall. In an instant the negress was at his side. “De Lawdy Gawd, Marse Jack, not AGIN?” He took his handkerchief, slightly streaked with blood, from his lips and said faintly, “Yes, it came on--on the boat; but I thought the d----d thing was over. Get me out of this, quick, to some hotel, before she knows it. You can tell her I was called away. Say that”--but his breath failed him, and when Aunt Chloe caught him like a child in her strong arms he could make no resistance. In another hour he was unconscious, with two doctors at his bedside, in the little room that had been occupied by Sophy. It was a sharp attack, but prompt attendance and skillful nursing availed; he rallied the next day, but it would be weeks, the doctors said, before he could be removed in safety. Sophy was transferred to the parlor, but spent most of her time at Jack's bedside with Aunt Chloe, or in the studio with the door open between it and the bedroom. In spite of his enforced idleness and weakness, it was again a singularly pleasant experience to Jack; it amused him to sometimes see Sophy at her work through the open door, and when sitters came,--for he had insisted on her continuing her duties as before, keeping his invalid presence in the house a secret,--he had all the satisfaction of a mischievous boy in rehearsing to Sophy such of the conversation as could be overheard through the closed door, and speculating on the possible wonder and chagrin of the sitters had they discovered him. Even when he was convalescent and strong enough to be helped into the parlor and garden, he preferred to remain propped up in Sophy's little bedroom. It was evident, however, that this predilection was connected with no suggestion nor reminiscence of Sophy herself. It was true that he had once asked her if it didn't make her “feel like home.” The decided negative from Sophy seemed to mildly surprise him. “That's odd,” he said; “now all these fixings and things,” pointing to the flowers in a vase, the little hanging shelf of books, the knickknacks on the mantel-shelf, and the few feminine ornaments that still remained, “look rather like home to me.”