In the upper hall the sick soldier in a bathrobe was hanging over the banisters in a panic, wishing some kind fairy would arrive and waft him away on a breath. All his perfidy in getting sick on a strange gentlewoman’s hands and lying lazily in bed, letting her wait on him, was shown up in Mary Amber’s voice. It found its echo in his own strong soul. He had known all along that he had no business there, that he ought to have gone out on the road to die rather than betray the sweet hospitality of Miss Marilla by allowing himself to be a selfish, lazy slob--that was what he called himself as he hung over the banisters. “Mary! Why, he has been very _sick_!” “Sick?” There was a covert sneer in Mary Amber’s incredulous young voice; and then the conversation was suddenly blanketed by the closing of the hall door, and the sick soldier padded disconsolately back to bed, weak and dizzy, but determined. This was as good a time as any. He ought to have gone before! He trailed across the room in the big flannel nightgown that hung out from him with the outlines of a fat old auntie and dragged down from one bronzed shoulder rakishly. His hair was sticking up wildly, and he felt of his chin fiercely, and realized that he was wearing a growth of several days. In a neat pile on a chair he found his few clean garments, and struggled into them. His carefully ironed uniform hung in the closet; and he braced himself, and struggled into the trousers. It seemed a tremendous effort. He longed to drop back on the pillows, but wouldn’t. He sat with his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, trying to get courage to totter to the bathroom and subdue his hair and beard, when he heard Miss Marilla coming hastily up the stairs, the little coffee-pot sending on a delicious odor, and the glass of milk tinkling against the silver spoons as she came. He had managed his leggings by this time, and looked up with an attempt at a smile, trying to pass it off in a jocular way. “I thought it was high time I was getting about,” he said, and broke down coughing. Miss Marilla paused in distress, and looked at his hollow eyes. Everything seemed to be going wrong this morning. Oh, why hadn’t Mary Amber stayed away just one day longer? But of course he had not heard her. “Oh, you’re not fit to be up yet!” she exclaimed. “Do lie down and rest till you’ve had your breakfast.” “I can’t be a baby having you wait on me any longer,” he said. “I’m ashamed of myself. I ought not to have stayed here at all!” His tone was savage, and he reached for his coat, and jammed it on with a determined air in spite of his weakness and the sore shivers that crept shakily up his back. “I’m perfectly all right, and you’ve been wonderful; but it’s time I was moving on.”