Geoffrey had not wanted her to go. He had been alone all the afternoon. (Ah, dear Miss Vesta! was it solitude, the patient hour you spent by his side, reading to him, chatting, trying your best to cheer the depression that you partly saw, partly divined? yes; for when an experiment in soul-chemistry is going on, it is one element, and one only, that can produce the needed result!) He had been alone, I say, all the afternoon, and his head ached, and there were shooting pains in his arm, and--he used to think it would be so interesting to break a bone, that one would learn so much better in that kind of way. Well, he was learning, learning no end; only you wanted some one to talk it over with. There was no fun in knowing things if there was no one to tell about them. And--anyhow, this bandage was getting quite dry, or it would be soon. There was the bowl of water on the stand beside him, but he could not change bandages with one hand. He heard Vesta stirring about in her room, the room next his. She was singing softly to herself; it didn't trouble her much that he was all alone, and suffering a good deal. She had a cold nature. Absurd for a person to be singing to chairs and tables, when other people-- He coughed; coughed again; sighed long and audibly. The soft singing stopped; was she-- No! it went on again. He knew the tune, but he could not hear the words. There was nothing so exasperating as not to be able to place a song.-- Crash! something shivered on the floor. Vesta came running, the song still on her lips. Her patient was flushed, and looked studiously out of the window. "What is it? Oh, the bowl! I am so sorry! How did it happen?" "It--fell down!" said Geoffrey. Vesta was on her knees, picking up the pieces, sopping the spilt water with a towel. He regarded her with remorseful triumph. "You were singing!" he said, at length. "Was I? did I disturb you? I won't--" "No! I don't mean that. I wanted to hear the words. I--I threw the bowl down on purpose." Vesta looked up in utter amazement; meeting the young doctor's eyes, something in them brought the lovely colour flooding over her face and neck. "That was childish!" she said, quietly, and went on picking up the pieces. "It was a valuable bowl." "I am--feverish!" said Geoffrey. "This bandage is getting dry, and I am all prickles." Vesta hesitated a moment; then she laid her hand on his forehead. "You have _no_ fever!" she said. "You are flushed and restless, but--Doctor Strong, this is convalescence!" "Is that what you call it?" said Geoffrey. CHAPTER XIII. RECOVERY "Feelin' real smart, be ye?" asked Mr. Ithuriel Butters. "Wal, I'm pleased to hear it."