Fairfax took Molly Shannon's presence for granted, accepted her services, obeyed her docilely and thanked her with his smile which regained its old radiance as he grew stronger. Lying shaven, with his hair cut at last--for she had listened to his pleading and sent for a barber--in clean sheets and jacket, he looked boyish and thin, and to the Irish girl he was beautiful. She kept her eyes from him for fear that he should see her passion and her adoration, and she effaced herself in the nurse, the mother, the sister, in the angel. Sure, she hadn't sent word to any one. How should she? Sorry an idea she had where he came from or who were his folks. "I am glad. I wouldn't have worried my mother." And answering the question that was bounding in Molly's heart, he said-- "There's no one else to frighten or to reassure. I must write to my mother to-day." As he said this he remembered that he would be obliged to tell her of little Gardiner, and the blood rose to his cheek, a spasm seized his heart, and his past rushed over him and smote him like a great wave. Molly sat sewing in the window, mending his shirts, the light outlining her form and her head like a red flower. He covered his face with his hand and a smothered groan escaped him, and he fell back on the pillow. Molly ran to him, terrified: "a relapse," that's what it was. The doctor had warned her. "God in heaven!" she cried, and knowing nothing better to do, she put her arms round him as if he had been a boy. She saw the tears trickle through his thin hands that in his idleness had grown white, though the dark ridges around the broken nails were blackened still. Fairfax quickly regained his control and made the girl go back to her work. After a little he said-- "Who's been paying for all these medicines, and so forth?" "Lord love ye, that's nothing to cry about." "There is money in my vest pocket, Molly; get it, will you?" She found a roll of bills. There were twenty dollars. She exclaimed-- "That's riches! I've only spent the inside of a five-dollar bill." "And the doctor?" "Oh, he'll wait. He's used to waiting in Nut Street." Fairfax fingered the money. "And your work at Sheedy's?" Molly stood by the bed, his shirt in her hand, her brass thimble on one finger, a bib apron over her bosom. "Don't bother." "You've lost your place, Molly; given it up to take care of me." She took a few stitches, the colour high in her face, and with a rare sensitiveness understood that she must not let Antony see her sacrifice, that she must not put her responsibility on Fairfax. She met his eyes candidly. "If you go on like this, you'll be back again worse nor ye were. Sheedy's afther me ivery day at the dure there, waitin' till I'm free again. He is that. Meanwhile he's payin' me full time. He is that. He'll keep me me place!"