John stood on the platform of the Back Bay station awaiting the arrival of the Federal Express from Washington bearing Margaret. The time was a few minutes before seven of a blustery March morning, and down here underground the cold was intense. John thumped his gloved hands together and took a turn up the platform. A suburban express had just emptied a portion of its load, but the arrivals had already hurried away and the place was deserted. John glanced at the clock and for the fiftieth time wondered how he should greet Margaret. His heart was beating at a disconcerting rate, and his thoughts refused to grapple with the stupendous problem, but darted off to recollections of their parting nearly three months before, to what he must tell her about Phillip. And all the while he was conscious of a disappointing attempt to summon before him a mental picture of her. Her eyes, brown, deep, inscrutable, looked back at him from the gloom, but the rest of her features were illusive, indistinct on the shadowy canvas of memory. And suddenly the long train thundered in.

He waited by the steps of the Pullman, and when the last passenger had descended turned away in keen disappointment. She had not come! But the next instant his eyes caught her farther up the platform, standing, a lithe figure in a gray cloth dress, looking perplexedly about her. She wore a great fur boa about her neck and her bag stood beside her. And after all his thought what he said to her was simply:

“Margaret!”

She turned with a little flash of pleasure and relief and gave him her hand.

“You didn’t sit up all night!” he exclaimed anxiously.

“No; I laid down. I slept very well.”

“But you shouldn’t have done that,” he said with a touch of exasperation. “You’ve tired yourself all out.”

She shook her head.

“No; I’m not tired,” she answered. “Tell me about Phillip, please.”

“Yes; but let us get out of here; it’s beastly cold.” He took her bag and led the way to the elevator. “Phil is very ill, Miss Ryerson,” he continued, “but there is no cause for alarm. That was the doctor’s verdict last night. When we reach the cab I will tell you more.

“To the Lenox,” he said to the cabman. “We’re going to have breakfast before we go out,” he explained as the door slammed behind him. “Are you warm enough?” He drew the rug about her and looked at her anxiously. Her face was very pale and there were dark shadows under her eyes. But she smiled and nodded in reply.

“And now about Phil, please, Mr. North,” she said.

“As the telegram told you,” John answered, “Phil’s got pneumonia. As near as I can make out, he got wet through last Wednesday night and caught cold. It seems he wanted to get tickets for Irving and stood up in line all night at the theatre. It rained, and he didn’t have any protection, and—well, the natural thing happened, I guess. He went to bed Thursday evening and he’s been there ever since. The trouble declared itself Saturday, and we telegraphed at once.”

“We didn’t get it until yesterday afternoon,” said Margaret. “Of course, mamma couldn’t come, and so——”

“No; I didn’t think she could. But—but couldn’t you have brought one of the servants? I don’t like the idea of you traveling up here all alone,” he said half apologetically.

“It would have meant another fare,” she answered simply. “I didn’t think we ought to spend more than we had to. There will be the doctor’s bill, you know. Is he—is he out of his head?”

“Yes; but that’s to be expected, you know. The doctor—and by the way, he’s the best I could find—the doctor says that Phil has a good, tough constitution and that he ought to pull through all right. Only it will be some time before he’s well again.”

“I know. The time is nothing if only—he gets well.” Suddenly, to John’s consternation, she turned her face away from him, laid her head against the cushion and wept softly from sheer fatigue and nervousness. He longed to take her in his arms and comfort her, and the temptation to do so was so great that he had to grit his teeth and look away from the slim, heaving shoulders.

“There’s scarcely any question about his getting well,” he said cheerfully. “He’s got a splendid doctor, good care and a lot of strength. We’ll pull him through all right, Miss Ryerson.”

The averted head nodded. One small gray-gloved hand lay beside him. John laid his own upon it reassuringly and his heart leaped as he felt it seized and clung to desperately. As soon as he was sure of his voice he went on:

“They were afraid to take him to the hospital and so he’s in his own room in Thayer. His roommate, young Baker, moved out and they put Phil into the study. The nurse has the bedroom. I’ve taken a room for you nearby, on Broadway. It’s a nice house and I think you’ll be very comfortable.”

“You’ve been very kind,” said a tremulous voice.

“Oh, no,” he answered. “I’ve wished I could be of some real service, but there’s so little a fellow can do. Now that you’re here, I have a feeling that everything is going to be all right.”

The hand drew itself away in search of a handkerchief and the cab came to a stop. Margaret dried her eyes, put back her hair and fixed her hat. Then she turned to John with a smile that was quite like those he remembered.

“I feel better,” she said. “I was tired, after all, and—all the way I feared that something dreadful would happen before I got here. I shan’t be so silly again. Do we get out here?”

The next week, in spite of Phillip’s excellent constitution and the best of care he received, was an anxious one. Margaret spent day after day at the bedside and sometimes shared a night’s watching with the professional nurse. Chester, very miserable for his share in the catastrophe, came twice daily to the door and went away comforted or alarmed, according to the news he received. And every morning a brougham stopped outside the Class of ’79 gate and a liveried footman presented Mrs. Kingsford’s compliments and begged to know Mr. Ryerson’s condition.

Betty, sorrowful, fearful, sat at home and waited. That was all Betty could do, and it was the hardest. She became a very white-faced and hollow-eyed Betty, who ate almost nothing, and who alarmed Mr. and Mrs. Kingsford until, in desperation, they threatened to send her South. But ere the threat could be put into execution the footman returned from Cambridge one morning with the news that the crisis was over and that, unless a relapse occurred, the patient would recover. That day Betty ate four fried oysters at luncheon, and there was no more talk of exile.

Two days later John and David called for Margaret at three o’clock in the afternoon and bullied her into taking a walk. David went under protest, and John, while insisting, really didn’t want him. But he thought that perhaps Margaret would prefer having a third. It was a marvelously warm afternoon, and they went up to Elmwood and back. David stayed awake the entire time and excelled himself as a conversationalist. After that the walks were daily events when the weather allowed. David didn’t always go, but it is not known that either John or Margaret felt the lack of his presence. March was very kind that year and gave day after day of spring skies and swelling buds. Phillip’s recovery, slow as it was, filled Margaret with a great peace and contentment, while John was almost irresponsibly happy. They talked of every subject under the blue sky save one—the one nearest John’s heart. He was careful to speak no word of his love, even though, as it sometimes seemed, everything conspired to compel him. Margaret was very kind, very gentle, and John might have been excused had he read something of encouragement in her bearing toward him. But he didn’t. It did not for a moment occur to him that absence might have worked in his favour. Margaret had declared at Elaine that she had no love for him, that she was assured she never could have, and he knew better than to think that three months of separation had made any difference in her sentiments. He had her promise, he consoled himself, and there was lots of time yet. If his plans turned out the way he expected them to the autumn might tell another tale. So he kept his love out of sight deep down in his heart, where it constantly rumbled like a dangerous volcano and threatened to erupt, and was evenly, calmly kind and thoughtful of her comfort and pleasure. And Margaret wondered and began to doubt.

There are several ways in which to take a census of one’s friends. One way is to die; but that has its drawbacks. Another way is to be very ill and recover. Phillip was trying the latter method, and his census was growing surprisingly long. Fellows who shouted greetings to him across the Yard or nodded smilingly in class came and left cards with sincere little scrawls on the backs. After the tide had set firmly in his favour, flowers and fruit and strange delicacies came at every hour. David had sincere faith in the strength-restoring properties of a certain brand of calf’s-foot jelly that was obtainable only at one high-class grocery in New York, and had a case of it delivered at Thayer. The Kingsfords sent flowers every day. Guy Bassett made a specialty of mandarin oranges, and Chester searched the Boston markets from end to end before he found grapes that entirely satisfied his fastidious taste.

I don’t want to throw the least discredit on the motives that prompted some of these offerings; I only mention, as having possibly some bearing on the proceedings, that men had a habit in those days of asking each other, “Have you seen Phil Ryerson’s sister? Man, she’s a perfect peach!”

And very often the reply was: “No; is that so? That reminds me; I was going to leave my card on the poor duffer. Guess I’ll drop around there this afternoon.”

It had been decided that as soon as Phillip was in condition to travel he was to be taken home, and Margaret began to count the days. Phillip’s recovery was slow. But, as the doctor reassuringly reminded her, he had been a pretty sick boy, and in getting well it was a good policy to make haste slowly. Phillip was hungrily eating dozens of oranges and drinking quarts and quarts of milk every day, and querulously accusing all hands of trying to starve him. But for all this he was still very weak and slept a good deal of the time. And the April recess was approaching.

At last, one warm and showery afternoon, he was allowed to see visitors. Margaret had been looking forward to that moment and laying her plans. John came at half past three. She met him at the door. “He is sitting up,” she whispered. “I want you to go in and see him; will you?”

John hesitated, but only because he feared his appearance would agitate and excite Phillip.

“You said you’d forgiven him,” she pleaded.

“There was little to forgive,” he answered. “It isn’t that; but do you think he wants to see me?”

“Yes,” she replied eagerly; “I’m sure he does.”

Phillip was sitting, pillow-propped, in a huge armchair beside the bed. He wore a flowered dressing-gown of Chester’s, a thing of vivid red and lavender and green, and his pale face looked whiter by contrast. Beside him, on the little table, a bunch of fragrant violets thrust their long, graceful stems into a glass. They were the only flowers in the room, and even they would have been banished with the rest by the nurse had not Phillip rebelled. There was a card leaning against the glass—a large, square, important-looking card, bearing thirteen small, severe letters. Phillip was looking sentimentally from card to blossoms when the door opened again.

“Here’s some one to see you, Phil,” Margaret announced. She passed through into the bedroom, closing the door behind her. Phillip turned his head languidly, and at sight of the caller the blood rushed into his face and then receded as quickly, leaving it paler than before. John took one thin hand and spoke naturally and simply as he gripped it.

“Phil, old man, this is good. You’ve had us rather worried, you know.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Better, thank you,” Phillip answered, rather stiffly. “It’s powerful slow work, though.”

“It must seem so. But your sister tells me that she expects you to be fit to make the trip home by the middle of next week. You’ll soon pick up at Elaine, I’ll bet. Why, hang it, Phil, if I were on my last legs and some kind person shipped me down there to your place I’d be out hunting the traction engine in a week!”

Phillip smiled, but the smile didn’t last. He put his hands together and began interlacing the fingers, just as Margaret had done, John thought, on the porch at Elaine that morning.

“That’s a jolly smelly bunch of violets,” said John.

“Yes, they’re very sweet.”

“Who sent them?” He leaned forward and read the card. “Oh, I beg your pardon, Phil!”

“It’s—it’s no secret,” said Phillip.

“Kingsford’s sister, Phil?”

“Yes.”

“I saw her once; an awfully nice-looking girl.”

“Yes. They’ve been mighty good to me, the Kingsfords.”

“They’re nice people,” said John. “Have you seen Everett?”

“No; you’re the first one—that’s been here—that I’ve seen, you know.”

“I see. Chester Baker has been in a terrible state of funk over you, Phil. He told me one day that it was his fault that you were ill, and that if you ‘pegged out’—to use his own elegant expression—he was going to China. I don’t know why China particularly; he didn’t say. But maybe he was going to turn Boxer.”

“It wasn’t his fault,” said Phillip. Then, after a pause: “The fellows have been mighty kind, John; whole stacks of them left cards and fruit and things, Margey says—fellows I didn’t know very well, some of them.” He paused again. “And you—Margey says you’ve been awfully good to her—and me; and—” he leaned forward and arranged Betty’s card in a new position, a flush of colour in his cheeks—“thank you,” he muttered.

“Nonsense, Phil; I’ve done very little. I’m not nearly even with you yet for your kindness to me at Elaine. I enjoyed myself there more than I have anywhere for a long while. Well, I must be going or the nurse will throw me out. Hurry up and get well, Phil.” He held out his hand. Phillip laid his own in it.

“Good-by. You’ll come again?”

“Often as they’ll let me, old chap.” He moved toward the door. With his hand on the knob he heard his name spoken and turned.

“Come back a minute, will you?” Phillip was asking.

“Of course. I don’t want to rush away, Phil, but there’s the tyrannical nurse to think of. What is it, old chap?” He walked back to the chair. Phillip was bunching up the rug over his knees with nervous fingers.

“John,” he began in a low voice.

“Hold on now, Phil,” the other broke in. “If you say one word about—that—I’ll get out of here so quick you won’t see me go; and I won’t come back, either.”

“But I must,” insisted Phillip. “You’ve got to say—you’ve got to forgive——”

“Chuck it, Phil! Listen to me a minute. I made a mistake—unintentional, Phil—and you didn’t like it. I’m sorry, and you’ve pardoned it—or you’re going to. It’s all over with and it’s all right, old chap; it’s all right!”

Phillip shook his head.

“It isn’t,” he muttered. “There’s—that night when I met you in the hall——”

“And we both lost our tempers. I remember. Well, we’ve found them again. Now let’s forget about it, Phil. You get well and come back and we’ll begin over again. I’ll see if I can’t be a better guardian. Good-by again, old man.”

“Well——”

“Yes, it’s all right.”

“I know, but—I’m sorry, John. I was a little beast. You ought to have kicked me. Why didn’t you?”

“Did think of it,” laughed John, “but concluded I’d better not try it on.”

“And—well—you’re sure it’s all right now, John?”

“All serene, Phil.” He rumpled the other’s hair. “Get well, eh?”

“Yes.”

“You’ll be back after recess, feeling fine. We’ll have a good time this spring; there’s no place like Cambridge in spring, Phil.”

“I wish you were going to be here next year,” mourned Phillip.

“So do I. But you’ll have David; I’m going to make him guardian in my place. Besides, I’ve got a plan—but I’ll tell you about that later. So long.”

“Good-by. I wish you’d come to-morrow!”

“I will. Thunder! here’s Miss Davis!”

But it wasn’t the nurse; it was Margaret who appeared at the bedroom door. She glanced swiftly from one to the other and smiled happily at what she saw.

After that John came almost every day and Phillip’s recovery was more rapid. It was Phillip who thought of asking John back to Elaine.

“I wish you could go with us,” he said one day when they were discussing the trip. “I shall be an awful bother to Margey, you see. Couldn’t you come along and stay with us for awhile? We wouldn’t ask you to remain for the whole recess, of course, but—two or three days, say——”

“Oh, if you would!” said Margaret. “I’ve been wondering how I was to get Phil home safely. But perhaps you were going somewhere else? We haven’t any right to ask you to take all the trouble, Mr. North, I know.”

“If you think I can help I’ll be very glad to go with you,” he answered readily. “Recess doesn’t begin until Saturday, but if you leave Thursday I can sign off, I think. I don’t believe, however, that I ought to stay at Elaine, Miss Ryerson; you’ll have trouble enough with this cantankerous invalid without having a guest to bother with.”

“I’m not cantankerous!” cried Phillip. “I’m mighty good; ask Margey! And, anyhow, you’re not a guest; you’re just—just John. And I want you to stay a week. If you don’t I shall have a relapse. I reckon there’s one coming on now! Will you stay? Quick! It’s coming!”

“Maybe,” laughed John. “For a day or two, anyhow, Phil, if your sister will put up with the bother.”

Callers came thick that week. Chester was among the first. He reviled himself eloquently and at great length, and assured Phillip that he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since the other had been ill. Phillip begged him to go back to his room and get some at once and stop talking nonsense. David came, and Guy Bassett, and more beside. David told Phillip solemnly that he was sure he would get well if he stuck to the calf’s-foot jelly; and Phillip very carefully refrained from telling him that the contents of the case were still untouched.

Betty’s violets continued to come every morning, and of late little notes—rather incoherent and very sprawly—came with them. Phillip spent a good deal of time with a pad on his knee answering them. Of course Margaret had learned about Betty. Charged with the fell crime of being in love, Phillip had made a clean breast of it all, and Margaret had perforce to listen, sometimes for an hour at a time, to enthusiastic eulogies of Miss Betty Kingsford. But for all that she had no intention of accepting Betty on such slim evidence as a lover’s praises; she must see her first. As a matter of fact, Margaret had her doubts as to the worthiness of Miss Kingsford, just as she would have had doubts as to the worthiness of any girl who attained to the honour of becoming Mrs. Phillip Ryerson. Deep in her heart she doubted if any girl was quite good enough for Phil.

Phillip saw Betty but once before he went home. It had been all arranged beforehand. Everett was to bring her out on Wednesday afternoon; they were to leave Thursday evening. Phillip was in a state of illy concealed excitement and impatience all that day. He worried Margaret half to death with his constant suggestions for the improvement of the room; chairs were moved hither and thither and then moved back again; flowers were distributed upon all sides; he would have had the pictures on the wall rearranged had not Margaret’s patience come to an end and had she not flatly refused to move another thing.

“You must be crazy, Phil,” she exclaimed once, almost crossly. (She was a little bit jealous, had she but known it.) “The idea of moving everything in the room simply because Miss Kingsford is coming!”

“I don’t see that,” Phillip had objected stoutly. “When a fellow’s going to receive the girl he’s to marry——”

“Shucks!” answered Margaret, unimpressed by his intense dignity; “you know you can’t be married for three years at least. And besides, you say yourself that she hasn’t really promised—that there’s no engagement!”

“We’re as good as engaged,” answered Phillip. “She just hasn’t said so out and out, that’s all.”

Betty had thought out just what she was going to say and just how she was going to behave. Phillip’s sister would be there, of course, and so she would be very dignified and a bit prim, perhaps. She would shake hands with Phil and tell him she was glad he was so much better, and that he must hurry and get fully well. As for the sister—well, Betty hoped she would like her. But if she didn’t—Betty made a face at herself in the mirror. So Miss Elizabeth Kingsford wore her very best gown and descended from the carriage with great dignity. Yet, when she entered the study, followed by Everett, and caught sight of Phillip, she completely forgot her part.

She was unprepared for the thin, white-faced and big-eyed Phil that confronted her, and she gave a little gasp of pain and dismay. Miss Elizabeth Kingsford was lost at the door, and it was just Betty that ran across the study and plumped herself into Phillip’s arms and kissed him and cried over him a little.

“Oh, Phil, you’re so thin!” she sobbed. “I didn’t know—you—would be like—this!”

“Betty, dear Betty!” he murmured to her, a very happy Phillip. “It’s all right, dear; don’t bother about me!”

“N-no, I wo-on’t!” sniffled Betty. Then, with a recollection of her brother and Margaret, she raised her head from Phillip’s shoulder and faced them half defiantly. Everett’s look of amazement summoned a little tremulous laugh.

“Oh, it’s all right,” she explained, drawing an impatient white-gloved hand across her eyes; “we—we’re engaged, you know.”