"I'm glad to find you so much better," she said, going to his bedside. "I've hardly slep', I was so much worried about you. Your breakfast is ready, Mr. Hartley. I've got something special for Albert." A few minutes later Maud entered with a platter, followed closely by her mother. The girl came forward timidly, but when Albert turned his eyes on her and called, cheerily, "Good morning!" she flamed out in rosy color and recoiled. She had expected to see him pale, dull-eyed, and with a weak voice, but there was little to indicate invalidism in his firm greeting. She gave place to Mrs. Welsh, who prepared his breakfast. She was smitten dumb by his tone, and hardly dared look at him as he sat propped up in bed. However, though he was feeling absurdly well, there was a good deal of bravado in his tone and manner, for he ate but little, and soon sank back on the bed. "I feel better when my head is low," he explained, in a faint voice. "Can't I do something?" asked the girl, her courage reviving as she perceived how ill and faint he really was. "I guess you better write to his folks," said Mrs. Welsh. "No, don't do that," he protested, opening his eyes; "it will only worry them, and do me no good. I'll be all right in a few days. You needn't waste your time on me; Hartley will wait on me." "Don't mind him," said Mrs. Welsh. "I'm his mother now, and he's goin' to do just as I tell him to--aren't you, Albert?" He dropped his eyelids in assent, and went off into a doze. It was all very pleasant to be thus waited upon. Hartley was devotion itself, and the doctor removed his bandages with the care and deliberation of a man with a moderate practice; besides, he considered Albert a personal friend. Hartley, after the doctor had gone, said with some hesitation: "Well, now, pard, I _ought_ to go out and see a couple o' fellows I promised t' meet this morning." "All right, Jim; all right. You go right ahead on business; I'm goin' t' sleep, anyway, and I'll be all right in a day or two." "Well, I will; but I'll run in every hour 'r two and see if you don't want something. You're in good hands, anyway, when I'm gone." * * * * * "Won't you read to me?" pleaded Albert, one afternoon, when Maud came in with her mother to brush up the room. "It's getting rather slow business layin' here like this." "Shall I, mother?" "Why, of course, Maud." So Maud got a book, and sat down over by the stove, quite distant from the bed, and read to him from _The Lady of the Lake_, while the mother, like a piece of tireless machinery, moved about the house at the never-ending succession of petty drudgeries which wear the heart and soul out of so many wives and mothers, making life to them a pilgrimage from stove to pantry, from pantry to cellar, and from cellar to garret--a life that deadens and destroys, coarsens and narrows, till the flesh and bones are warped to the expression of the wronged and cheated soul.