By the next noon, when the alarmed Emma Peterson had Dr. Ward in, Edgar was barely conscious. Dr. Ward frowned, ordered hot water bottles and gave Edgar a huge dose of hot whiskey with lemon. "Penicillin, please," whispered Edgar painfully. "Or sulfa. It's pneumonia, isn't it?" "Poor fellow's delirious," said the doctor to Mrs. Peterson. Edgar realized dimly that he had made a blunder, but that no one would know. Then the fever took over and he blanked out. * * * * * Dr. Ward claimed ever afterward that clean living was what pulled Edgar through--the fact that he wasn't conditioned to liquor gave the medicinal whiskey virgin ground to work in. All Edgar knew was that he came to and found himself so weak that he could scarcely speak. Mrs. Peterson and her daughter, Marta, bustled in and out to care for him. He hadn't paid particular attention to Marta before, but in the days of lying helpless and being literally spoon-fed, he began to know her very well. Marta was a plain girl, he had thought, but he had never seen her private smile before. Marta was rather dumpy, he had thought, but he had never watched her bend to pick something up or twist to reach for a medicine bottle. Her dresses, he discovered, were deliberately all wrong for her--Mrs. Peterson had no intention of disturbing her boarders unnecessarily. In the shocking intimacy of his bedroom, Edgar was increasingly disturbed. Marta was unfailingly cheerful, eager to wait on him. Every half-hour, he heard her step in the hall. "Hello!" Marta would say, sweeping lightly to his bedside. "How's our patient now? Feeling better? Oh, dear, do let me just straighten that sheet. It's all wrinkled. Would you like some milk or some fruit?" "Not right now, thank you--perhaps a little later," Edgar would reply, fixing his gaze determinedly on the window or the ceiling while she bent over his bed, disturbingly rounded and disastrously close. And as Edgar's recovery progressed, Mrs. Peterson dropped more and more into the background. On the day Dr. Ward said he might try sitting up for a while, it was Marta who stood by for the experiment. Edgar started nobly, made about a foot of arc by himself and faltered. Instantly, it seemed, Marta's arm was around his shoulders and a firm, warm projection cushioned his cheek. He very nearly collapsed, but she sat him up. Three days later, he held her hand for a moment and, though she blushed, she didn't draw it away in a hurry. After a proper interval, their engagement was announced. Half the maidens in Greencastle wept in the privacy of their pillows that night. * * * * * Edgar had had a serious problem and solved it. He had found the right girl and married her. This should be the end of his story and it would be, except for two things--Edgar's gene and the date of his birth.