“Why do you say 'Dear me'? You want to hear, don't you? It will be a wonderful thing for you, I should think. It is sure to be somethin' you will like, because they said so in their letter.” “Yes--ah--yes.” Both were silent for a brief interval, then Martha said: “I presume likely I shall be sittin' here in this very room this winter, doin' just the very same thing I'm doin' now, knittin' or sewin', with everything just as it is, cat and plants and Primmie and all the everyday things I've been amongst all my life. And you'll be away off, goodness knows where, among goodness knows what sorts of queer people and queer places.... Well,” she added, with a smile, “you won't have any one to fret you about whether you put on rubbers or not. That'll be a comfort for you, at any rate.” He did not seem to find great comfort in the prospect. “I shall not put them on,” he said. “I know I sha'n't. I shall forget all about them, and forget to eat at regular times, and to--ah--keep my head covered in the sun. Why, do you know,” he added, in a burst of confidence and quite as if he had not said the same thing before, “when I am by myself I always forget things like that, things that real people--ah--normal people, remember. Then I have--ah--indigestion and headaches and all sorts of miserable ailments. I shall forget again, of course, and my friends, the normal ones, will tell me, as they always do, that I need a--ah--keeper, so to speak. Oh, dear, yes.” She was indignant. “A keeper!” she repeated. “The idea! I do wish you wouldn't keep speakin' of yourself as simple-minded or crazy, Mr. Bangs. You are absent-minded, I know, but what of it? Whose business is that?” He rubbed his chin. “Why, here,” he observed, smiling slightly, “you have been kind enough to make it YOUR business, Miss Martha. The reason I do not have--ah--sunstrokes and colds and headaches here is that you take pains to see that I am protected against their causes. I realize that. And I realize, too,” he added, “that in Egypt I shall miss your--your great kindness. I shall miss all this--this room and all--very much, indeed. I think--no, I know I have never spent such a pleasant year as this has been. And I fear I shall never spend another as pleasant.” She laughed, but she looked pleased, nevertheless. “Nonsense!” she exclaimed. “You'll have many more a great deal pleasanter, of course. You're well now, Mr. Bangs, and good health makes such a difference. You will enjoy your work more than ever.” “Will I? I don't believe I shall. That is very odd, I know, but I think it is true. I have been thinking about it a great deal of late and--ah--I--well, you know, I am very sure I shall be lonely.” “Lonely? You! Lonesome over in Egypt, after all you've told me about your lovin' it so, Mr. Bangs! Lonesome for what, for mercy sakes?” “Why, for--for the Cape, you know; and this house and this pleasant room and--and the kindness which has been shown me here.”