At this point the hot blood surged again into Connie’s face, then left it paler than before, as she closed her eyes wearily. “You are tired. You have sat up too long,” Kenneth said, while Connie opened her eyes and looked at him pitifully, as she replied: “My aunt writes me to come back, but I can’t. I’d rather stay here. Shall I be in the way?” Kenneth would like to have taken her in his arms and told her that was her resting place forever, but something in her eyes and manner since she became conscious had seemed a barrier he could not understand, and now he only replied: “No, Connie; never in the way. This is your home as long as you choose to make it so.” Evidently her letter had not done her much good, and Kenneth saw her tear it in bits, which she threw into the fire. She was not tired, and when Kenneth suggested that she lie down, she said: “I’m not going to be tired any more. That’s Mrs. Foster’s creed, isn’t it? And I am going to try it, and pray all the time till I feel that I am well.” Her improvement was very rapid, and by the second week in May she was able to walk as far as the ledge where the Christmas tree had been. To Kenneth the place was sacred because of the little girl in the blue hood and cloak, who had come at his call and smeared her rosy cheeks with sugar and grape juice, as she answered to her name, with Chance at her side. His grave was in a corner of the inclosure, and Kenneth pointed it out to Connie, whose eyes filled with tears as she stooped over it and said: “The dear old dog; he was a part of that happy week, the happiest I have ever known. I mean the happiness which left no sting, no ache, no wish that it had never been.” She was sitting now in a rustic chair Kenneth had substituted for the wooden one, and he was standing in front of her. How lovely she was in her convalescence, the delicate color coming back to her cheeks and the old-time brightness to her eyes, in which there was always a far-away look of sadness which Kenneth could not define, and which it seemed to him deepened whenever she met his gaze fixed upon her, as it was now with a meaning she could not mistake. There was a quivering of her eyelids; then the tears gathered in her long lashes as she looked steadily at him, as if bidding him speak and be done with it. He did not need any bidding. He had intended to speak when he brought her there, and when to his question, “Why are you crying?” she answered, “I was thinking of things, and wishing I were a child again,” he burst out, “I am glad you are not a child, but a woman,—the loveliest I have ever seen, and the dearest.”