"Mr. King!" ejaculated Miss Barry. King! His name was King! That settled it. Blanche Aurora's heart bled for the gay, broad-shouldered young man who had gained her sympathy, but Miss Linda's wishes were paramount. "Let's take him here and cure him," she repeated stoutly. "You're perfectly crazy, child," was the startled reply. "I shouldn't consider taking a man into my house; and I think they'll make out all right at Luella's with our help. I shall let you take nice things over to him once in a while." Blanche Aurora's breast swelled with excitement. She should see the King: see the wonderful person who could wring tears from the powerful and self-contained Miss Linda; but at the same time she felt very, very sorry for Fred Whitcomb. Going about to get supper she narrowly escaped scorching the biscuit and she poured the tea into the water pitcher. The long evening had dimmed to twilight when Mrs. Porter appeared at Linda's open door. The girl had left it ajar as an invitation to her. "What's this? What are you doing?" asked the older woman cheerily as she descried the face on the pillow. "Hating myself," returned Linda briefly. Mrs. Porter's pleasant laugh sounded. "There's nothing in that," she returned, and she came and sat on the foot of the bed. "He's better, or you couldn't laugh," said Linda. "Yes, he is. That nice Whitcomb is a regular steam engine. He has a tent with all the outdoor sleeping paraphernalia and they don't expect to spend many nights indoors. Of course, it's just the right season for the experiment." "Does Bertram--does he look very--very ill?" "Oh, rather frail, of course; but he looks very good to me with his nice gray eyes so care-free." "He has the most lovely teeth I ever saw," said Linda with a gulp. "Yes; they're just as nice as ever." "I wish you were in a serious mood, Mrs. Porter." "How can I be when I'm so relieved and grateful?" "Can't you be a little sorry for me, who am absolutely miserable?" Linda's words were interspersed with catches in the throat, but she was determined to weep no more. "No one should be that. Cheer up, girlie. That nice Whitcomb--" Linda jerked her face around into the pillow. "Oh, don't go on calling him 'that nice Whitcomb!' It seems as if I was born just to make everybody miserable!" Mrs. Porter squeezed the ankle by which she was sitting. "Not everybody. I'm sure Madge Lindsay will give you a vote of thanks if you don't absorb Mr. Whitcomb." "Why? Has she come to life?" inquired Linda gloomily.