On one of the shelves there was a small homemade desk in which she rummaged. She found a number of loose bits of paper, some of them scribbled over in pencil and others with ink. They were apparently accounts, notes concerning various supplies and a few letters from various places. Finding a clean sheet she brought it to the doctor who rapidly wrote at length upon it. At this moment Stefan awoke, with a portentous yawn, but a second later he had leaped to his feet and was scanning their faces anxiously. "I tank mebbe I doze for a moment," he informed them. "How is Hugo gettin' long?" "For the present he looks to me somewhat better," answered the doctor. "There doesn't seem to be any immediate danger, and I'll have to start back in a few minutes. We've had a cup of tea, but you'd better make some breakfast ready." Stefan bestirred himself and presently a potful of rolled oats was being stirred carefully for fear of burning, and bacon was sputtering in the pan. The kettle was singing again and Madge was cutting slices from a loaf left by Mrs. Papineau. The three sat down to the table and ate hungrily, abundantly, as people have to who make stern demands upon their vitality. The doctor made a few more remarks about the treatment of his patient. He had carefully laid on the table the little tablets of medicine, the bottle containing an antiseptic, the cotton and gauze that must be used to renew the dressing. Then he went out, breathing deeply of the sharp and aromatic air, and a moment later he and Stefan were gone, the latter promising to return at once, with a few needed supplies from the store. Madge was alone now with Hugo, who was again sleeping quietly. She read over the doctor's directions carefully while she stood by the little window, as the lamp had been extinguished. A few minutes later she decided to place the paper in the little desk again, for safe-keeping. Without the slightest curiosity her eyes fell again upon some of the writing on loose sheets. But presently she was staring at it hard as a strong conviction made its way into her brain. After this she went to the other shelf where some books had been placed and opened one of them, and then another. On the flyleaf was written, in bold characters, "Hugo Ennis." The writing was exactly the same as that which appeared on the scattered leaves, for she compared them carefully. "There can be no doubt--he never wrote those letters," she decided. "But--but I knew very well he couldn't have written them. It--it isn't like him." The idea came again that he could have obtained some one to write for him, but it was immediately cast aside. The man would not engage in dirty work himself--far less would he get others to do it for him. She--she had abused and insulted him--called him a liar, as far as she could remember, and again her face felt hot and burning.