"Yes, you being here," I answered, not so much surprised after all, if the truth were told, for I could never quite make myself believe that some part of my dream was not true. "I so longed to see you after we left Little Sandy," I went on, "that I always wished myself back, though a hundred Moths and Aunt Janes were in the way." "Then you are not worried?" she asked, kissing me again. "No; why should I be? but have I been sick long?" "Yes, many weeks." "How did it happen? I can’t remember that I was ailing," I answered. "You broke down that morning when you came to our door, and for weeks knew nobody, but raved continually about Moth and Burke and the wild animals that had you imprisoned in a tree of some kind." "Did I talk about such things?" I asked "Yes." "I’m a poor stick, always breaking down and making a show of myself," I answered, ashamed of my weakness. "No, you are not. The doctor said your sickness was brought on by fatigue and lack of food and sleep. It was your coming to, though, he most dreaded, fearing you would lose your mind." "Now I see why I am in this room, and why you have made it like the old one," I answered, tears coming to my eyes at the thought of their kindness. "Yes, we fixed it up like the other so you would think you were in Little Sandy. See," she added, going to the window and throwing back the curtain, "this is not the old square, but another, larger and finer, with a house hidden away in the trees." "Where all the roads meet, as Uncle Job said," I answered, putting my arm about her and kissing her in such delight of living as I had never known before. "There; you will bring on your fever again if you act in that way, you wild boy!" she answered, drawing back. "I don’t care if I do," I answered, reaching out and taking her hand and pressing it to my lips. "Then you don’t mind my not telling you all this before?" she asked, as if she had been in doubt how I would take the part she had played in misleading me. "No, for now I’ll not have to leave you again. Tell me, Constance," I asked, after a while, "why has your father not been to see me? I’ve looked for him every day." "He had to go back to Little Sandy, but will be here in a few days. It was he who caught you that morning." "Was it? I couldn’t see." "We never expected to hear you speak again, for you lay for hours as if dead. Then sleeping and waking you uttered frightful cries, and for weeks we stood about your bed, watching and praying," Constance answered, tears dimming her soft eyes at the remembrance. The next day, being stronger than ever, Constance said I might talk, and with that I fell to questioning her about everything that had happened, and particularly about Uncle Job, who, next to her, was ever uppermost in my thoughts. "Did some one go to Uncle Job that night?" I asked. "Yes; papa and the doctor." "What did they find?" I asked, lifting myself up.