Another visitor during those days was the beer-driver, who came to inquire about Baron’s condition, and for further manifestations of kindness, as it appeared. Baron tried to shake his hand, but the task was too herculean. “I might go out the back way and slip in a can, if the old lady’s against it,” he said, flushing readily and smiling. “It just happens that I don’t care for it,” said Baron. “I’m quite as much obliged to you.” He thought it was rather a hopeful sign that he was genuinely pleased to see this man, who had tried to be a good neighbor. “August is my name,” said the visitor as he prepared to go. “When you’re near the brewery, ask for me. You could go to a dance with me some night. We got a lot of fine fellows. Girls, too.” He said this in the tone of one who would say: “You’re plenty good enough to go with me.” Then he, too, was gone. * * * * * The days passed--more days than Baron liked to count. And still Bonnie May did not go over to the Thornburgs’, but haunted Baron’s room early and late, between lesson hours, and tried in a thousand ways to serve him. He made curious discoveries touching her. Often she stood by the window looking out, and he marvelled to see her body become possessed by some strange spirit within her. Her very flesh seemed to be thinking, to be trying to become articulate. And when she looked at him, after such a period as this, she suddenly, shrank within herself and gazed at him with a wistfulness so intense that he felt an eager wish to help her--yet also a strange helplessness. Once he cried: “You strange little creature, what is it?” But she only shook her head slowly and whispered, “Nothing”--though he saw that her eyes filled with tears. Finally Doctor Percivald called again--three weeks had passed since the patient had been put to bed--and announced that if Baron would confine his activities to the house for a few days longer, he might safely get up. CHAPTER XXV BONNIE MAY SEES TWO FACES AT A WINDOW It was at luncheon, and Baron was down-stairs for the first time since his accident. “It’s just like having Johnny come back from the war,” observed Bonnie May, as the family took their places at table. Baron, Sr., was not there. He usually spent his midday hour at his club. “From the war?--Johnny?” replied Baron. He stood by his chair an instant, putting most of his weight on one foot. “I mean, you can think of so many delicious things. We might believe you were wounded, you know, coming home to see your wife and daughter. As if the sentries had allowed you to come in for a little while. They would be outside now, watching. Men with dirty faces and heavy boots.” “Yes, if I had a wife and daughter,” suggested Baron. “Oh, well--Flora and I. Anyway, you’ve got a mother, and that’s the real thing when there’s any soldier business.” “It’s a real thing, anyway,” observed Mrs. Baron.