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[377] 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.[378] “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——”

[379]

“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.”

[380]

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?”

[381]

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[382] 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[383] 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[384] 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[385] 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[386] 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 doo............