"All right! I'll promise anything, only let me see my Carl."

But Enoch's patience was tried at the very start. Tom tiptoed into the
room, and as he saw the pale smiling face of Carl and heard his welcome
he threw his arms around the sick man's neck, and sobbed through his
tears: "Carl, my Carl, you're nearly well, aren't you?"

Enoch, standing near the bed, placed his finger upon his lips, but Tom
did not recognize his admonition, and kept on giving expression to his
happiness. "Carl," said he, "God has given you back to us. I told mother
that he would, and he has."

The pleasure of Bishop McLaren's visit was plainly lessened by the
illness of the young secretary. The family of his host were all anxious,
and the members of the faculty were visibly affected. Even the servants
about the place felt concern for the young secretary and whispered many
exaggerated stories concerning the case. But the crisis had been passed,
and Carl began to improve. After a slow recovery he took up his
accustomed duties, and church and school work fell back into its old
routine. But six weeks of typhoid fever had greatly emaciated the young
secretary. The buoyancy and brightness seemed to have left him. He had
been fond of athletic sports, but now he apparently cared nothing for
them. With Tom he would walk over to the exercise grounds and, seated in
a chair, would watch the students in their games, seldom speaking and
never elated.

The kindly bishop watched the young man closely and, after much serious
thought, wrote to his personal friend, Dr. Marmion, of New York, inviting
him to the Monastery to take a day or two of rest. Nancy exhausted her