By the next morning Tabitha had fully recovered from her terrible night's experience, but it was days before the old hermit awoke to consciousness to find himself lying in a white bed in the Miners' Hospital of Silver Bow with Dr. Vane bending over him and a motherly woman in white cap and apron moving about the room.

"Where am I?" he asked faintly.

"In the Silver Bow Hospital," answered the doctor.

"How came I here?"

"You were hurt. You mustn't talk now. When you are stronger you can ask questions."

"But I must know how I got here. Who found me? I was sick, I remember, and I think I tried to send Bobs for help, but he wouldn't leave me."

"You upset a lamp or something and set the house afire. Catt's little girl Discovered the blaze, gave the alarm and helped Carson haul you out. It was a tight pull, my man, but you will soon be all right now."

"Catt's girl? Carson?"

"Yes. No more questions at present. Save your strength and get well."

So the bandaged man lay quiet among the pillows and waited for health to return to him again; nor did he ask for further information until one day the doctor told him that on the morrow he might go for a walk in the open air if he wished.

"Could you bring that little girl to see me?" he asked, and the physician, surprised because the patient had never before manifested any interest in his rescuers, replied that he would see about it. So that afternoon when school had closed, Tabitha was met at the door by Dr. Vane and went with him to see the hermit of the hills, Surly Sim.

She found him sitting by the window, looking out toward the flaming west where the sun was already sinking behind the mountain tops, and he did not turn when she entered the room, or give any sign that he saw or heard her. She waited in silence for some moments beside his chair, and then, thinking he had not heard her enter, she said timidly,

"How do you do, Mr. Hermit? Dr. Vane said you would like to see me."

The man started at the sound of her voice and turning in his chair stared so fixedly at her that she was frightened and wished Dr. Vane had stayed with her. "Is there something—can I do anything for you? Would you like to have me speak some pieces for you?" Poor Tabitha had not the faintest idea what to say to this man, whose scarred face shocked and disconcerted her, and there was no one in the room to help her.

"What's your name?" finally asked the hermit.

"Tabitha Catt."

"Pretty name!" He laughed mirthlessly and the girl shrank as if she had been struck. She had not expected him to make fun of her and was undecided whether to be hurt or angry. He was kind to animals; she had hoped to meet that same kindness toward herself.

"It's a horrid name, but I can't help it, for I didn't name myself," she answered with dignity, resolved to hold firmly to the fiery temper that caused her so much unhappiness.

"Why don't you drop it and take some other?" he asked curiously, aware that she was making an effort to control herself.

"I did once," replied the girl with a dejected air, in such contrast to her former haughty tearing that he was amused. "But it didn't pay."

"Why not?"

"Dad made me take it all back."

"Tell me about it."

"That's all there is to tell. I let folks believe my name was something else and he made me tell them what it really was."

"What was the name you adopted?"

"Theodora Marcella Gabrielle Julianna Victoria Emeline."

"Whew! How could they ever remember it all? That's a long handle for a little girl."

"They called me Theodora Gabrielle for short."

He smiled in spite of himself. "And do you really wish your name was that whole string?"

"I did wish so once. That was when I was a little bit of a girl. I am twelve now. In next April I will be thirteen. Girls are young ladies when they get into their teens, Aunt Maria says. If I could change my name now, I would rather it would be Theodora Eugenia Louise. That is shorter, and long names are not the style any more. Theodora was my mother's name and I should want that for mine always."

"Do you look like your mother?"

"I reckon not. She died when I was too little to know anything, but if either of us looks like her it must be Tom. I am afraid I resemble Dad."

"Afraid?"

He spoke this word with a peculiar rising inflection, but she did not catch the significance of the question, and replied, "Yes. He is tall and thin and black and slab-sided. That's me, too, except I am short yet; but I expect I will grow. Besides, I've got the Catt inside of me. I scratch like fury when I am mad. Now Tom doesn't get mad, though his name is almost, or just, as bad as mine."

"What do you get mad at?"

"Lots of things, but 'specially my name. Folks make such fun of it and say the hatefullest rhymes, and when they do that I just light into them with my fists."

"And you a girl!"

"I am always sorry afterwards, but then it is too late to help it. I've got to learn to let them tease without getting mad at all and then they won't torment me, but it is a mighty hard thing to do, I think. I've been trying for twelve years now and it is almost as bad as ever. Tom says I am doing splendidly, but he doesn't know how often I get mad."

"Where is Tom?"

"Going to college at Reno."

"College, eh? He's a smart boy, is he?"

"Yes, indeed! We're both smart." He laughed at her naive reply, and her face flushed, but she continued convincingly, "I am almost as far as I can get in school here. I am ready for Latin. Mrs. Carson says if I can't go to boarding school next fall, she will teach me herself, so I can keep up with Carrie."

"Why didn't you go this year?"

"There wasn't any money."

"Would you like to go?"

"Wouldn't I!" was the emphatic exclamation, as she clasped her hands in rapturous longing.

"If you could have one wish granted what would it be?"

"What do you mean?"

"If you were told that you could have any one thing you wanted, what would you choose?"

"Only one?"

"Yes."

"Well, it would be pretty hard to choose. I want to go to boarding school awfully bad, but—I believe—I would choose a home like Carrie Carson's."

"Carrie Carson's! What is the matter with your own? Isn't your house as big as theirs or as nice?"

"No, but I wasn't thinking of houses just now. A house isn't a home always. Our house isn't. Tom and I are the home part of our house. Aunt Maria is housekeeper and Dad just stops there once in a while. They don't care about having a home, I reckon."

The man was silent with astonishment at her keen observations, and mistaking his silence for disapproval at her criticisms, she hastily resumed, "The kind of a home I mean is where all the folks in it like each other and are always nice like the Carsons."

"So your father isn't like Mr. Carson?"

"Not a bit—yet."

"Is he mean to you?"

"N-o, not exactly. He is a Catt, that's all. I reckon it is me—I, who is mean. I get mad and sass him when he shakes me, and once when he whipped me I burned up his slippers."

"Does he whip you often?"

"No, this was the only time—so far. I spilled candy on his best hat, which is enough to make any man mad; but being a Catt, he was very mad. I haven't seen him since, because he is away on a trip, but when he comes back I am going to tell him I am sorry I burned up his shoes. I was just beginning to think maybe there was hopes of his being like Mr. Carson yet when I made him mad. Now I suppose I will have to begin all over again."

"Then you think your father is improving?"

"Why, you see, Dad has had a hard time of it. There have been so many things to make him feel bad. When he was in college he got expelled because of something dreadful another boy did, and then a man who was working with him in the mines cheated him out of all his share, and mamma died, and money has been hard to get and—well, he got cross."

"So he took his spite out on his children, eh? Who was the man who cheated him?"

"I don't know, but Dad doesn't believe in friends any more. He says there is no such thing as a true friend. Mr. Carson says that is because the man he trusted 'betrayed his confidence'—those are his very words."

The bandaged figure in the invalid chair moved uneasily, and a silence fell over the hospital room while he stared gloomily out into the fading light, and she sat lost in her own thoughts. Suddenly he roused, and his voice sounded sharp and curt as he said, "It is nearly night. Time you were going home."

Tabitha's face crimsoned at his peremptory dismissal, and she bounced out of her chair indignantly.

"You sent for me. I didn't come because I wanted to. Good-by."

She was gone before he recovered his breath, and never a word had passed between them concerning the fire which had so nearly cost him his life, though his purpose in sending for her was that he might thank her for her bravery. He called after her, but she did not hear his voice, and the door closed with an emphatic bang which told him plainer than words how angry she was.

For a long time after she left him he lay quietly by the window in the twilight, thinking over what she had told him and battling with himself; but in the end his better nature conquered. The next day he went for his walk, as Dr. Vane had suggested, and that was the last Silver Bow saw of him for some time. Some folks thought he had met with foul play, others that he had wandered too far for his strength and had either perished or been taken care of by some prospector, while still others held the opinion that he had taken French leave. Speculation as to his disappearance soon died down, however, and Surly Sim, Tabitha's hermit of the hills, was forgotten.

The holidays came, bringing Carrie home for a brief vacation, and she was bubbling over with such enthusiastic reports of life at boarding school that Tabitha found it harder than ever to let her go back to enjoy the privileges which were denied her. So great was her grief that after seeing her flaxen-haired playmate on board the train to return to her school, she rushed away to pour out her despair to sympathetic Mrs. Vane.

"I don't see why it is that some people have everything and others nothing," she sobbed bitterly. "I can't help envying Carrie. She has the nicest mother and father and the prettiest house and the loveliest books and clothes and all the money she wants. And so has Jerome. They both go away to school and have splendid times and see the world, and I can't have any of it."

"Poor little girlie!" murmured the woman to herself. "How unjust it does seem, even from a grown-up's standpoint!" So she stroked the heavy black hair and cuddled tearful Tabitha until the storm was spent; then she spoke tenderly, "That is one of the problems that has puzzled the world all these years, dear, and has caused all sorts of trouble. But it is something that we can overcome, every one of us, if we want to."

"What do you mean?"

"Just this, Puss; don't sulk and be cross because you can't have everything you want. Be happy where you were put. Did you ever hear the little poem called The Discontented Buttercup? It is the story of a buttercup who mourned because she couldn't be a daisy with white frills like her neighbor flowers, and she didn't see the loveliness of the day nor feel the softness of the breezes because she spent all her time in vain wishes. So she asked a robin who had paused to rest near her if he wouldn't try to find her a nice white frill some time when he was flying. And then these verses follow:

Take this little lesson to heart, dear, and make sunshine where you are, instead of being sorrowful because you can't have what Carrie has. Maybe when you have learned the lesson thoroughly, these other things will come to you; but if they don't, then keep on making sunshine. Everyone loves a happy heart, and every smile or kind word spoken cheers the old world a little. Life is like a stairway, but because all of us can't reach the top of the flight, we should not sit down on the first step and mourn because we can't have what those on the last stair are enjoying. We must climb as fast and as far as we can if we want to make the most of our lives; but when we have done our very best, that is all we can do. If there are others who can do better than we can, we must try not to envy them, but be glad of their success. It is a question, dear, that you will understand better as you grow older. But if you will remember the buttercup verses and make the most of what you are and have, I am sure you will be happier."

"Teach me the verses, Mrs. Vane, and I will try to remember them when I get to envying again; though I still wish I could have nice dresses and go to boarding school." Mrs. Vane smiled at her candor, but found the little poem for Tabitha, and when she skipped out into the dusk for home, she was saying over and over,

She had hardly disappeared over the hill when another visitor climbed the steep path to the Vane cottage and knocked. The doctor himself opened the door and was confronted by a tall stranger muffled to his ears in a heavy ulster.

"Come right in, sir," said the doctor, motioning his visitor into the cosy office, and waiting for him to state his errand.

"You don't remember me?" asked the man, as he sat down and threw open his coat. The voice sounded very familiar, but at first the doctor could place neither face nor figure. Then he remembered—it was Surly Sim.

"Well, well, where did you come from? I have often wondered what became of you. This country is a bad place for a sick man to get lost in." The hermit laughed. "I had some business that had to be attended to and I was afraid you wouldn't let me go so soon. Can you keep a secret?"

The doctor was startled at the abrupt question, but replied gravely, "That is part of a physician's life."

"Yes, but I have no reference to your professional duties. I mean this—I want you to take this money and see that Tabitha Catt is educated—boarding school, college, whatever she likes. I think that sum will cover—"

"Why don't you take it to her yourself?"

The doctor was more than puzzled at this unusual request from such a person as Surly Sim, the supposed crazy man, the hermit of the hills.

Startled at the unexpectedness of the question, the man stammered confusedly, "I—no—I can't—not yet. I have reasons for preferring to handle the matter in this manner at present. You need have no scruples. I earned every cent of this money; it is my very own. The child saved my life, and I owe her whatever help I can give her. This is a little sum, but it is the best I can do just now. Will you take it and do as I ask?" Still the doctor hesitated. "Then see here, perhaps I can convince you of the truth of what I say. Read this." He laid on the table before the doctor a written document which the physician carefully perused, and laid back on the table. "Do you believe me now?"

"Yes."

"And will you take the money for the little girl?"

"Yes, but I wish I could convince you that it would be better for you to go to Mr. Catt—"

"Not yet, not yet! I can't meet him yet. He mustn't know who I am yet. When I have righted the wrong, then I will come back; but for the present I would ask you to keep my secret and see that the little girl is sent to school. You will do this?"

"To the best of my ability."

They shook hands and out into the darkness the hermit went.

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