strong arms he could make no resistance.

In another hour he was unconscious, with two doctors at his bedside, in
the little room that had been occupied by Sophy. It was a sharp attack,
but prompt attendance and skillful nursing availed; he rallied the next
day, but it would be weeks, the doctors said, before he could be removed
in safety. Sophy was transferred to the parlor, but spent most of her
time at Jack's bedside with Aunt Chloe, or in the studio with the door
open between it and the bedroom. In spite of his enforced idleness and
weakness, it was again a singularly pleasant experience to Jack; it
amused him to sometimes see Sophy at her work through the open door, and
when sitters came,--for he had insisted on her continuing her duties as
before, keeping his invalid presence in the house a secret,--he had all
the satisfaction of a mischievous boy in rehearsing to Sophy such of
the conversation as could be overheard through the closed door, and
speculating on the possible wonder and chagrin of the sitters had they
discovered him. Even when he was convalescent and strong enough to be
helped into the parlor and garden, he preferred to remain propped up in
Sophy's little bedroom. It was evident, however, that this predilection
was connected with no suggestion nor reminiscence of Sophy herself. It
was true that he had once asked her if it didn't make her "feel like
home." The decided negative from Sophy seemed to mildly surprise him.
"That's odd," he said; "now all these fixings and things," pointing
to the flowers in a vase, the little hanging shelf of books, the
knickknacks on the mantel-shelf, and the few feminine ornaments that
still remained, "look rather like home to me."

So the days slipped by, and although Mr. Hamlin was soon able to walk
short distances, leaning on Sophy's arm, in the evening twilight, along
the river bank, he was still missed from the haunts of dissipated men. A