poverty of the household, and let it plainly be seen that she had high
hopes of the money these poems were going to bring. She did not set a
price. She would leave that to their own indiscretion, she said in
closing.

It was midnight before Susan had copied this letter and prepared the
two manuscripts for mailing. Then, tired, but happy, she went to bed.

It was the next day that the nurse went, and that Mrs. Colebrook came.

The doctor said that Keith might be dressed now, any day--that he
should be dressed, in fact, and begin to take some exercise. He had
already sat up in a chair every day for a week--and he was in no
further need of medicine, except a tonic to build him up. In fact, all
efforts now should be turned toward building him up, the doctor said.
That was what he needed.

All this the nurse mentioned to Mr. Burton and to Susan, as she was
leaving. She went away at two o'clock, and Mrs. Colebrook was not to
come until half-past five. At one minute past two Susan crept to the
door of Keith's room and pushed it open softly. The boy, his face to
the wall, lay motionless. But he was not asleep. Susan knew that, for
she had heard his voice not five minutes before, bidding the nurse
good-bye. For one brief moment Susan hesitated. Then, briskly, she
stepped into the room with a cheery:

"Well, Keith, here we are, just ourselves together. The nurse is gone
an' I am on--how do you like the weather?"

"Yes, I know, she said she was going." The boy spoke listlessly,