Meanwhile he progressed slowly, but quite to Dr. Rivers' satisfaction. Presently he was able to come downstairs for longer and longer intervals. At first he leant on the boys as he made the journey, but after a time he was able to manage with my stick and the help of the banisters. I don't think any of us ever asked ourselves when he would be well enough to go, though he must be a strain on our resources. He looked so gentle and so young, and his manner was so grateful, that we all grew quite fond of him. And yet we had never heard his name. The omission did not seem to strike him, and it did not occur to any of us to ask him. One day Esther suggested shyly to Aline that we should read to our guest and play to him, to relieve the tedium of his invalidism. Aline assented heartily, and made the suggestion to him when he was established on the sofa for the afternoon. "We have no newspapers," she said, laughing, "except the _Lissycasey Leader_, and our magazines are thirty years old, but there are some novels and poetry. Or if you do not care for reading, Esther will play to you, but the piano has not been tuned for years." He lifted up his eyes, which had begun to smile again, though they were hollow. "I should like the poetry if Miss Hilda or Miss Esther will be so good as to read to me." I brought down my old Tennyson and selected Maud, which I love best of all the poems. I read on in a silence only broken by the crackling of the logs in the grate. Aline had left us, and Esther had gone over to the fire, and was sitting on the old sheep-skin rug, with her arms leaning on a chair, propping her cheek. Outside there were blue skies and keen frost, and the room with its painted wreaths on the wall, and the faded old brocade of curtains and chair-covers, looked warm and pleasant. "I have led her home, my love, my only friend; There is none like her, none. And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on, Calming itself to the long-wished-for end, Full to the banks, close on the promised good. "None like her, none. Just now the dry-tongued laurels' pattering talk Seemed her light foot along the garden walk, And shook my heart to think she comes once more; But even then I heard her close the door; The gates of Heaven are closed and she is gone. "There is none like her, none, Nor will be when our summers have deceased. O, art thou sighing for Lebanon; In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East, Sighing for Lebanon. Dark cedar, though thy limbs have here increased Upon a pastoral slope as fair, And looking to the South, and fed With honeyed rain and delicate air, And haunted by the starry head Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate, And made my life a perfumed altar-flame."