I did not answer. I lay back on my pillows with my eyes shut. I had given him the plague, had seen him die and be buried, before he spoke again. “The chin,” he said, “is not so firm as I had thought. The outlines are savage, but the dimple—— You poor little thing; are you really frightened?” “I don’t like you,” I said furiously. “But I’d hate to see any one with—with that trouble.” “Then I’ll confess. I was trying to take your mind off your troubles. The bite is there, but harmless. Those were new ferrets; had never been out.” I did not speak to him again. I was seething with indignation. He stood for a time looking down at me; then, unexpectedly, he bent over and touched his lips to my bandaged arm. “Poor arm!” he said. “Poor, brave little arm!” Then he tiptoed out of the room. His very back was sheepish. * * * * * * Transcriber’s note: --Silently corrected obvious typographical errors; left non-standard spellings and dialect unchanged.