“I think I shall come in the evening. It will be much cooler and more pleasant for him, Doctor. Yes, if you will, please. It’s two o’clock now. About six o’clock. Thank you.”

Miss Ross hung up the telephone receiver and sat for a moment at the alcove desk in her living-room. She reached forward and taking a number of letters and papers from a pigeon-hole, ran them over carefully, and tremblingly replaced them. Then she called her maid and told her to order the carriage for half-past five. “Master David is coming home this evening,” she explained. “We will have dinner at seven, as usual.”

After the maid had gone, Elizabeth Ross sat for a long time with her hands folded on her lap and her eyes fixed on the darkened window where a keen ray of August sunshine pierced a chink in the shutters and ran slanting across the interior twilight to the opposite wall. She was thinking of her nephew’s accident and the consequences which had so unexpectedly overwhelmed him. The operation had been successful and there would be no recurrence of the disastrous effects due to the original unskilled treatment of the wound.

The doctor had advised rest and freedom from excitement and worry. She wondered, now that David was coming back home, how long he would be satisfied with such a regimen, especially as he had of late expressed annoyance at his detention in the hospital, assuring his aunt that he was not only in fine fettle, but also there were business matters that required his immediate attention. It fretted him to think of the idle weeks that had slipped past since that June evening when he had stepped from the curb to cross the street to his aunt’s house, had almost reached the opposite curb when he grew blind in the dusk....

She sighed as she recalled her first visit to the hospital, where that unnatural face had lain so expressionless, so dully indifferent and white, looking up at her but seeing nothing. He was all she had in the world—had been virtually her son since his childhood. Never had his nearness to her heart, his large share in all that she thought or did, been so forcibly apparent to her. Her affection for him had no subtlety. It was as sterling, as unbending as her love for truth, and the name of Ross. She realized a lack in herself of certain superficial qualities of grace and subtlety, and immediately prepared herself to anticipate his slightest wish, as though she had not been unconsciously doing that since he was a youngster in knickerbockers.

The sun-ray through the shutters swung higher in the room. It touched a brass ornament and wavered in a tangent to the ceiling, where it shimmered and changed like moving water. She gazed dreamily toward the window, then nodded, recovered herself as a carriage rolled easily past, the hoof-beats of the horses muffled by the over-heated asphalt pavement. She nodded again, and finally her eyes closed in sleep.

The maid’s tap at the door awakened her suddenly. “The carriage is here, Miss Ross.”

“Gracious me! I had no idea it was so late.”

A half-hour later David was in the carriage with her, as they drove homeward.

“Why, Davy, you act as though I hadn’t seen you for a fortnight,” she exclaimed, as he kissed her. “The idea of kissing me right on the street with those two nurses and the doctor grinning on the steps.”

“Well, auntie, they can’t see us now,” he exclaimed, as he kissed her again. “Tell William to drive as slowly as he likes. I don’t want to see a bed again for ages.”

She flushed happily and patted his hand. “So you are really going to stay with your old aunt for a while and not run off to the woods again and get—have something horrible happen to you?”

“No. I have too much to do here,” he replied. “I wonder—did you see any letters for me—?”

“Only three, Davy. Two of them are apparently from your Mr. Avery, judging by the post-mark—Tramworth—and the handwriting on the envelopes. The other had Bernard, White & Bascomb’s return address on it. I called up Walter Bascomb and told him the doctor had forbidden you any excitement or business. He said the letter was of no particular importance.”

“Yes,” said David, gazing at the familiar buildings as they drove along in the cool of the evening. “By the way, Aunt Bess, did you happen to find a little brown box among my things?”

“No, Davy. I looked over everything carefully. I don’t remember having seen it. There were some things came from a hotel downtown. They telephoned to me. I told them to send the things, and your bill.”

“That’s so. I’d forgotten about that hotel.”

He was silent until they reached the house, where he politely refused William’s proffered assistance up the steps. He took his aunt’s arm playfully; “Just as though I needed to,” he said. “I’ll keep you busy enough, William, for I’ll need the carriage every day now.”

After dinner, while they were sitting in the unlighted drawing-room, he asked for his letters. “I’ll get them,” he said, springing up, but his aunt restrained him with gentle insistence.

“Davy, you mustn’t jump up like that till you’re stronger.”

She brought the letters and turned on the lights, coming to him anxiously as she noted the accentuated pallor caused by his attempt to forestall her courtesy.

“Thank you. You’ll excuse me, won’t you, but I’m anxious about Avery and Smoke.”

“Smoke?”

“Yes. Wallie’s bull-terrier.”

“Oh, yes, I remember.”

He opened one of the letters and read slowly, his brows drawn together in an effort to decipher his partner’s chirography. “Listen to this, Aunt Bess. Talk about dogs remembering things.”

He turned back to the first page of the letter and began:—

Lost Farm Camp, June 18.

Dave Ross dear sir, Jim Cameron come Up nex day after you went bein curious to find what becom of Smoke. I thought he would never Git his tong back in his hed he was pantin from runnin Clean from Tramworth I guess, and a piece of rope on his coler. Jim says he drov from the Station and was Jest passin hikes house What owns the Dog what barks at everything includin hisself And Smoke was jest Finishin off the dog when Jim Hollered Smoke and he quit. Jim says he knowed it was Smoke by the Red ticket tied to him but Smoke lit out fur here and me and Swickey was Sleepin when she hearn Smoke scratchin the Door. Hikes Dog chawed Some of the Ticket but I reckon it is good yit. and Swickey grabbed Smoke Around the neck and Took him To bed cryin and laffin. We got Smoke alright And if the Surveior wants him I kin ship him but I Thought you would Rite and say so. Swickey is kind of quiet like mostly sense you went. Hoping this Finds you in Good health as it leaves me yours truly

—— JOHN AVERY.

“My goodness! And that’s your friend at Lost Farm. No wonder he wants you to teach his daughter, David. Do you really enjoy living with such people?”

“It isn’t just the people, Aunt Bess. It’s the place, the surroundings, the simplicity of everything—and it’s big. Boston isn’t big, it’s just complex.”

Miss Ross sighed, endeavoring to understand her nephew’s rather unintelligible distinction.

“I know I can’t explain it, Aunt Elizabeth. One can feel the difference, though. There’s room to breathe in up there.”

She smiled at his enthusiasm for the North Country, with a sincere gratitude that he was able to feel enthusiasm for anything after his prolonged sickness.

“This is not so long,” he said, turning the page of another letter from Avery. “Mostly business.” He frowned and re-read the sheet. “Pshaw! I don’t like that. It’s too much like trickery. By the way, auntie, do you happen to know where Wallie Bascomb has been this summer?”

“Bessie told me he had gone into the woods again. She mentioned it when she brought the roses.”

“Oh, those were Bessie’s roses then? You didn’t tell me, you know.”

“She asked me to say nothing about it. It quite slipped out, David. I’m sorry.”

He gazed at his aunt curiously for a moment. “It was nice of Bessie. I didn’t think she cared enough—”

“That’s because young people are so self-centred and blind, David;—especially young men who are apt to be a trifle masterly, in some ways.”

“I suppose you mean me?” he replied, laughing.

“Davy lad,” she said, her wrinkled face alight with an old hope revived, “David, do you really care for Bessie?”

“Of course I do,” he answered promptly. “She’s a jolly good girl. I admire her lots.”

His aunt smiled again. “I didn’t mean that way, David.”

He crumpled the letter in his hand and thrust it in his pocket. “Well, I did care—once.”

“Don’t you now?”

He hesitated, staring at his white fingers. “I don’t know exactly. I think not. You see Wallie and his father know enough about my plans, and I about theirs, to make it difficult for anything of that kind. Frankly, I’m fighting them for a fortune. It’s up there,” he continued, gesturing toward the north. “They want it and we’ve got it. They’re going to make trouble for us if they can. They’ll do it politely enough, of course, but—wait a minute—” He tore the third letter open and glanced at it hastily.

“I thought so. I left that box of asbestos samples in Bascomb’s office that day....”

He took Avery’s second letter from his pocket again and smoothed it on his knee.

“... so not hearin’ from you I sot still and waited. Long Come young Glass-eyes perlite as axel-greas and said the railrud were goin to cross five mile below Lost Farm. I tole him I knowed that fur a considable spell. He looked Supprised a minit and then said he was willin to stick by the fust deal and pay me my figer fur the land I tole him You was Boss on that shift and he said you was sick. I reckoned he was talkin strait seein I aint heard from you he giggered His feet around a spell and said all right and I will take Smoke Back to Tramworth. Reckon he Must a tried tien him in the baggage-car same as you done For Smoke was back here nex mornin Smilin al over. Smoke did not bring No Ticket back This trip so mebby he did not git as fur as the Station. Sense you ben gone Swickey she is took with the idea of goin to Tramworth to scule nex fall.... Hopin this finds you in good health as it leaves me yours truly

—— JOHN AVERY.”

David folded the letter slowly. “It’s the asbestos, Aunt Elizabeth. A chap named Harrigan found it while cruising a strip of Avery’s land. Somehow or other he told Wallie about it. It’s a find all right—there’s miles of it in the creekbed, right on the surface. We’re going to take an expert up there and inspect it—it’s five-inch fibre and worth a fortune. We expect to mine and sell it. Heavens, I wish this confounded head of mine hadn’t acted up at the wrong time.”

“But you’re going to get well, David. The doctor says you will have to rest and be quiet for a few months—”

“A few months? Why, that’s all I have been doing since I came back.”

“Yes, I know. Now, tell me all about this asbestos and your work. Just lie back and be comfortable and I’ll listen.”

For perhaps half an hour David talked Lost Farm tract and right-of-way while his aunt tried patiently to follow his explanations. She disliked to tell him that his plans might be delayed on account of the length of time necessary for a complete recovery, but an opportunity offered and she seized it.

“So that is why you want to get well in such a hurry, David? I don’t like to discourage you, but Doctor Leighton says you won’t be able to do anything but get well for at least a year. He’s coming to talk with you about it in a day or two.”

“A year! Why, Great Scott! Aunt Bess, I simply must get things moving right away. Avery expects me to.”

“Why right away?”

“Why, because—because—don’t you see Bascomb is working day and night for possession?”

“But he hasn’t got it, David.”

“No.”

“Well, don’t worry. Promise me that you won’t do anything more than write letters until you see the doctor, won’t you?”

“I—I—of course I will, Aunt Elizabeth, if you ask it. You’ve been awfully kind—and I’ve been no end of trouble to you.”

“Davy!”

“I know—but it’s a shame, hang it all. I’m all right now.”

But the trembling of his hand which rested on the arm of the chair belied his statement.

“Come, Davy, you’re tired. I’ll see you to your room as I used to.”

Together they mounted the stairway, her arm in his.

“Good-night, laddie. If you want anything, call me. I shall hear you.” She kissed his forehead, and patted his shoulder reassuringly. “It will all come right in the end, David. Just have patience with yourself—and me.”

“You! Why, Aunt Bess, if—you weren’t my aunt, I’d—I’d marry you to-morrow!” he exclaimed. “You’re the only woman that ever did amount to shucks, anyway.”

“I ken weel what you mean, Davy Ross,” she replied teasingly, as he turned toward his door. “And I ken wha you be thinkin’ aboot the noo.”

Laughing, he turned toward her again. “Bet you don’t!” he said, assuming her tone of raillery.

“It mon begin wi’ a ‘B’?”

“You’re wrong, auntie. It happens to be an ‘S,’ and I’m going to buy her a birthday present to-morrow.”