In spite of many nights spent at that bedside, she looked far better and more robust than when she had first reached Roaring River. Courage had returned to her and with it the will to endure, to live, to seize upon her share of the wondrous glory of this new world that was so fresh and beautiful. And yet her thoughts were very sober; she did not feel that she had reached utter happiness. Her life would now be one of usefulness, according to the doctor's promise. She felt that faces might become cheerier at her coming and that little children--the children of other people--would welcome her and crow out their little joy. Several long nights of quiet rest had built her up into a woman that was no longer the factory drudge or the recent inmate of hospitals. One of the Papineau children had come over to remain with Hugo, lest he should need anything. Madge attended him during the day, concocting things on the stove, dressing the fast closing wound and administering the drugs left by the doctor, with the greatest punctuality, and the man's eyes followed her every motion, generally in silence. She also spoke little. It was as if, upon both of them, a timidity had come that made it hard for them to exchange thoughts. The first time he had wanted to speak of the problem of her coming she failed to encourage him. "I know all that happened now," she told him, "and I have long known that you were not at fault, in any way. Indeed, I feel grateful for your forbearance when I first came. But, if you don't mind, we won't speak of it again. It--it distresses me." He saw plainly that she had blushed, in spite of the fact that she turned her head swiftly away, and remained silent until she came again with a teaspoonful of something he must swallow. So she sat down again and her mind reverted to the future, which was certainly immeasurably splendid and promising, as compared to the outlook of a fortnight before. In her pockets were the letters she had written to this man. Dr. Starr had brought them to her one day, when Hugo was already able to listen and understand. "I think they were intended for me," said the latter, gently. "No!" exclaimed Madge, reddening and leaping from her stool. "Please give them to me, Dr. Starr. They were sent to an utterly unknown man. They were replies to letters you never sent and therefore they're not yours. Please--I--I'd rather you didn't see them!" The young man had nodded, quietly. "Of course they're yours," he acknowledged. "We--we won't mention them again, if it's your wish."