Maurice's room came, now and then, the murmur of Edith's honest little
voice, or Maurice's chuckle. They were talking about her, she knew, and
the happy color burned in her cheeks. When he came in for his second
visit, late that afternoon, she asked him, archly, what he and Edith had
been talking about so long in his room?

"I believe you were telling her what a goose I am about thunderstorms,"
she said.

"I was not!" he declared--and her eyes shone. But when she urged--

"Well, what _were_ you talking about?" he couldn't remember anything but
a silly story of Edith's hens. He repeated it, and Eleanor sighed; how
could he be interested in anything so childish!

As it happened, he was not; he had scarcely listened to Edith. The only
thing that interested Maurice now, was what Eleanor had done for him!
Thinking of it, he brooded over her, silently, his cheek against hers,
then Mrs. Houghton came in and banished him, saying that Eleanor must go
to sleep; "and you and Edith must keep quiet!" she said.

He was so contrite that, tiptoeing to his own room, he told poor
faithful Edith her voice was too loud: "You disturb Eleanor. So dry up,
Skeezics!"

As he grew stronger, and was able to go downstairs, Edith felt freer to
talk to him--for down on the porch, or out in the garden, her eager
young voice would not reach those languid ears. Then, suddenly, all her
chances to talk stopped: "What's the matter with Maurice?" she pondered,
crossly; "he's backed out of helping me. Why can't he go on shingling