“So long! Who has taken care of—of—me?” He was panting for breath. Noting which, she answered kindly but firmly: “Bradford has taken care of you. But you must talk no more—you are too weak. Close your eyes and try to sleep.” “And you have—helped to nurse—me,” he went on brokenly. “I know—you have. I was dimly—dimly conscious of your presence. But I thought you were—were——” “You must talk no more,” she sternly interrupted. “If you do not obey me, I will leave you here alone.” A feeble, flickering smile for one brief moment illuminated his ghastly features. Then it was gone, and he murmured faintly: “No, don’t leave me. I’ll obey you.” And obediently he closed his eyes, and was soon fast asleep. A few minutes later Bradford returned. “Still sleeping?” he inquired softly, gazing into the upturned face. “He has been awake,” La Violette answered quietly. “Ah! And he recognized you?” She nodded. “Did he ask you any questions?” “He wanted to know where he was, who had brought him here, and who nursed him.” “You answered his questions?” “Yes.” “And then?” “I gave him some gruel and commanded him to go to sleep.” “And he obeyed you. I couldn’t have done better myself. Now you must keep the promise you made me. Take a short walk; then eat something and seek the rest you so much need. I don’t want to see you back here until to-morrow morning. Come—you must do as I say.” Listlessly, pathetically, La Violette left the cabin; and Bradford took her place by Douglas’s couch. Ross improved very slowly. It was the first of February before he could totter across the room and take a peep at the outer world. He was greatly reduced in flesh and strength; he was nervous and irritable. His muscles were soft, his buoyant disposition was gone, and his mind seemed feeble and apathetic. Bradford and La Violette did all they could to cheer and encourage him—but in vain. Like a water-logged vessel, he drifted this way and that in the eddy of conflicting emotions—and made little progress toward the haven of health. Out of patience, at last, Bradford said to him: “Look here, young man! Do you want to get well? If you do, you’ve got to rouse yourself. Shake off your lethargy and be a man. You’re acting the baby. I’m ashamed of you.” Ross proudly straightened his thin form. His nostrils dilated and quivered. Something like his old self-reliance flashed in his hollow eyes, as he cried in piping tones: “Hiram Bradford, you’re very brave now; you insult a man who is too weak to give you the drubbing your words merit. You’ve forgotten that I defeated you in a fair contest of strength and skill—when I was myself. Yes, I _will_ rouse myself; I will try to recover my health—if for no other purpose than to make you eat your words!” A spasm of pain contorted Bradford’s scarred face. But quickly recovering his equanimity, he chuckled huskily: “That’s it—get angry at me. I thought I could stir you. You feel better already, don’t you?”