She thought we all ought
to give up and stay with you, but we told her you disliked to be
'babied.' Well--good-night, old fellow. Don't write too late. You know
the doctor thinks plenty of sleep is part of your cure."
That was the sort of thing they had been saying to him for a year now--a
year. And he seemed no nearer health than when he had been sent home
from his gloriously busy, abounding life in New York, where he was
succeeding brilliantly, far beyond anybody's expectations--except those
of the few knowing ones who had recognized the genius in him in his
school and college days. But he had never given up. Invalided in body,
his mind worked unceasingly; and a certain part of the literary work he
had been doing he did still. He said it kept him from going off his
head.
When the stillness of the usually noisy house had become oppressive he
took up his tablet and pen again. He wrote a sentence or two--slowly;
then another--more slowly; and drew an impatient line through them all.
He tossed the tablet over to a table near at hand and sat staring into
the fire.
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