SIMEON Tetlow, in the little house by the creek, was growing stronger.  
There had been days of waiting-long, slow days, when he sat dully passive, staring before him, or lay on the camp bed in a deep sleep. When he woke, he took the food that John brought him and fell asleep again.
 
Little by little, unseen fingers had come in the silence and smoothed the lines from the sleeping face, touching the fevered cheeks to coolness.... He slept now like a child, breathing lightly, and when he woke, his eyes were clear and fresh—only somewhere in the depths lurked a little shadow that nothing could efface.
 
The shadow kept tally on their days. When it lightened, John’s heart sang, and when it deepened, he set himself anew to his task.
 
For the first days he had not left his patient night or day—except for brief journeys across the woodlot to the farmhouse to bring the food that Ellen cooked. Later, when Simeon was able to walk a little and needed less care, he had made occasional trips to the office of the road.
 
It was during one of these trips that a new factor had entered into the case. The young man had been gone since early morning and the house was very quiet, deepening in the long silence to a kind of presence. The October sun poured in at the windows and a late fly buzzed in the light on the pane.
 
Simeon glanced at it. Then he went and stood by the window looking out. His eye traveled along the little path that lost itself in the bushes and undergrowth at the left. It was a path that John had unwittingly worn in his daily journeys to the farmhouse. But Simeon did not know this, he did not even know that it was a path. He did not guess that along it a child was trudging, bringing him health in both her fat little hands.
 
He went back and sat down by the fire, sighing a little. It was an open fire that blazed and crackled, and as he watched it he dozed.
 
The hand on the latch startled him and he sat up—awake.... John was early.... He turned his expectant face to the door. It swung open silently, as if unseen hands had pushed it, and he sprang up trembling. ... No one was there.... Then his eye dropped a little and he stood still—staring at her.
 
She was very little, and she was very round and fat, and her cheeks laughed and her curls danced, and her stout little legs, in their heavy stockings, had a sturdy sense of achievement. She looked at him gravely. Then she turned and placing both hands on the door pushed it shut.
 
He had not stirred from his place. His eyes were following her, half doubting.... She was not more real than some of the visions that had haunted his tired eyes.... But much more charming!
 
She confronted the closed door for a moment with a little air of triumph. Then she nodded at it and turned and came toward him across the room, her face lifted.
 
But still he did not speak. He had moistened his lips a little with his tongue and his breath came quickly.
 
She seated herself on a packing box that served as a chair and crossed her fat legs at the ankle. She nodded gravely. “I am Ellen,” she said in a clear, sweet voice, “Who are you?”
 
He moistened his lips again, still staring. Then a humorous light crept into his eyes. “I am—Simeon,” he said gravely.
 
She nodded again. “I like Cinnamon. Granny makes them—round ones—cookies. I like ’em.”
 
“And who is Grannie?” he asked.
 
“She is—Grannie,” replied the child. “Do you live here?” Her direct eyes were on his face.
 
“Yes, I—live—here.” He said the words slowly and a little sadly.
 
“Who does your work?” she asked promptly.
 
He leaned toward her, very serious. “A fairy,” he said.
 
She slipped from the box and came toward him, her face aglow. “Where is it?” she demanded. She stood before him very straight—courage and health and belief in every line of the swift little body.
 
He half put out a hand, but she stirred a little and he withdrew it, leaning back in his chair and gazing with half-shut eyes into the flame. “You can’t see a fairy, you know,” he said quietly.
 
She had bent forward, a hand on either knee, peering intently into the fire. She straightened herself—“Don’t you see it?” she asked. “Not ever?” A disappointed look was in the eyes.
 
He shook his head. “They come at night, you know.”
 
The brown eyes searched his face. Then the curls wagged from side............