Father raised an eyebrow.

"Why?"

"Mr. Denton--and 'quickened pulses'?" I quoted with a rising inflection.

"Why not?" interrogated my parent. "A contemporary of mine, and, Mavis, you must admit, an admirer of yours--"

I was flattered into silence, and turned my attention to my roses once more. Father chewed his pipe stem--a reprehensible habit--and made an announcement.

"We've had another caller today," he said.

"You're as bad as Sarah for concealing things until the eleventh hour," I reproached him. "Who was it?"

"Denton's nephew."

This, in Green Hill phraseology, really fetched me. Round-eyed, I stared.

"Didn't know he had one!" I said, somewhat aggrieved. "Who is he, and what is he doing here?"

Father stretched out his long legs, preparatory to explanation.

"It's a long story," he said. "Briefly, this is a prodigal nephew.

There has been some family feud in the Denton clan, but recently done away with. When the hatchet was buried, Denton got into touch with his late brother's family, which consists of a wife, and an only son, who is a doctor. He has just recovered from a slight break-down--overwork, I believe. And Denton through me arranged to have him come here to recuperate and at the same time to a.s.sist our good friend, McAllister in some of his surgical research."

By this time my mind was putting two and two together and making eight or nine.

"Not Doctor Denton," I asked, "_the_ Doctor Denton?"

Father nodded.

"Perhaps--" he began wistfully. But I shook my head.

"Please not!" I said. And he left me with his sentence unspoken. But I knew! We had both read so much of the young surgeon who had effected wonderful cures in cases similar to mine. It had never occurred to either of us, at the time, that he might be of John Denton's family.

But I knew that father often wished, out loud, that he might consult with him about me, deploring the fact that he was in Europe. But for a number of years I have begged so hard that no more doctors be let loose to probe and pound me--a process of infinite torture with no results save deeper hopelessness and white nights, that father promised. So I have been left in peace. Lazily, I wondered why father had not told me sooner of his discovery and subsequent arrangement with Doctor Mac. But I had a bad siege of it, a while back, and probably during that very period the matter had come up. Doubtless, when I had finally struggled up again from my depths, father, once more lost to the world among his books, had forgotten.

I lay silent, watching a bird seesaw on the vine which clambers over my window-ledge in friendly fashion. "Long past your bed-time!" I remarked severely. But it cheeped at me impudently.

I wonder what Doctor Denton looks like. Thin, I fancy, professional, and probably very jumpy. But I cannot condemn his nerves quite as harshly as I know Sarah does. I have had a speaking acquaintance with nerves, myself.

I meant to indulge in _The Lyric Hour_ tonight. But my little blue friend has claimed all of my time. I will save Mr. Warren, therefore, for another day. Like icing on a cake. The book lies under my pillow still, barely peeped at. Perhaps I shall sleep better with that Ship of Song beneath my cheek.

Diary, good night!

Twenty-four hours later.

Oh, Diary, I have found him! And I don't know, and care less, whether he is twenty or ninety, fat or thin, married or single! The only thing in all the world which I am sure of at present is that he is mine! For I have him locked up between two vellum doors, from which he shall never escape. He's here--and never in all my life has anyone so thoroughly belonged to me. I've the heart and brains and beautiful spirit of him, and all day long his name makes a happy spot in my conscience. _Richard Warren! Richard Warren!_ I hold the book that he has given to the world between my hands, in reverence. For all that I have hoped, and dreamed, and lived, in my shut-in life; all that I have ever wanted to be; all, that in my secret soul-shrine I have worshipped in G.o.d and Nature and Love of Love, is written down here for me to read and make doubly my own. I don't know who or what he is, Diary, in the outside world. And it doesn't matter. Nothing matters but this one little book to which he has set his name. For everything worth while is here; dust of stars and wine of dreams; essence of youth and joy of living, given word-form. And yet, these are not words so much as they are music, and color, and fragrance. I've just been reading and reading, and now I've laid the book aside, and have been lying here idly, letting broken s.n.a.t.c.hes of purest beauty drift through my mind. And, for the first time I find myself regretting the shade of my eyes, for my new companion sings of "grey eyes as pure as G.o.d's first dream of stars." But perhaps it's just that grey lends itself more easily to poetry than common or garden brown.

Diary, I wonder if I have fallen in love with a book! But what a satisfactory state of heart to be in after all! I can banish my lover with so little effort, if ever I am not in the mood for him! I can even cast him into the fire, if he ever bores me! And I am sure that the most lovelorn maiden on earth must have moments when she would envy that faculty! And when I finally relent, as all true lovers must, how simple it has been made for me to buy a new copy of the Beloved!

Good night, "sweet gossip," as the ladies of Shakespeare's time were wont to say. You're such a comfort! And you'll not tell, will you, that Richard Warren and all his words lie once again beneath my pillow?

June 21

It's raining. Silver fingers are tapping at my window pane, and father's morning offering of roses came to me with their darling faces all wet and gleaming. I hated the weather _hard_ when I woke up, but in my _Lyric Hour_, which holds so many, many lyric hours for me, there's a little verse about the rain, which patters through my mind as soothingly as the drops outside. So I've become almost reconciled to a dull day, devoid of visitors, and with Sarah complaining of "rheumatics." I shall begin to grumble about them myself soon, for I'm aware of warnings in my spine which bode no good. I'm too tired to write more, Diary.

July 1

Since last I set pen to your paper, Blue One, I have descended into Sloughs of Despair. Now, emerged again, I take up my story where I left it. A day or so after the last time I talked with you, I had an attack, of the sort which has mercifully been spared me for over a year. It had been coming on, steadily, but I wasn't going to give in to it--oh, no! So, the first intimation which father and Sarah had of its arrival was late one night, when a moan that I had been biting back for an hour tore its way to freedom past my closed lips, and revealed its presence, surprisingly, in the shape of a scream. Sarah came flying to my bed, and hard on her heels, father. They gave me such remedies as are always at hand, and which generally prove friendly. But this time they failed. My Demon had been in abeyance too long, and was reluctant to loosen his clutches. Once made free of my flesh, he would listen to no reason. Presently there came a period of half-consciousness, through which I dimly heard father at the telephone, calling Dr. McAllister's number. I almost smiled, through the creeping faintness, to think how annoyed he would profess himself to be, "called out of bed at this unG.o.dly hour!" and how once arrived, he would toil to help me.

When I opened my eyes again after what seemed years, it was with a vague sense of amazement that Doctor Mac had grown so young since last I had seen him. For he was slim, where once he had been inclined to rotundity, and ruddy-brown where once he had been spa.r.s.e and grey.

Upon my pulse was an unfamiliar hand, and a strange voice, close to me, was saying quietly.

"She's coming round, Mr. Carroll."

Somehow, this calm disposition of me was annoying.

"I'm not," I heard myself contradict weakly.

Two steel-blue eyes, set in a lean face, met mine. It was not a friendly encounter.

"Please don't talk," ordered this new Doctor Mac briefly.

Father laid his hand upon my forehead.

"Is the pain better, dear?" he asked, with that break in his voice which always comes when he knows that I am suffering.

I tried to flash triumph into the blue eyes, and responded, "Yes."

Then, as My Demon's jaws took a fresh hold on my spinal column, "Oh--no--!"

There was a low-voiced consultation, and then father said, rea.s.suringly,

"Don't talk, Mavis dear, and lie quiet. Doctor Denton is going to give you something to relieve you."

I felt six years old again, and resentful to find father going over to the enemy. But I was grateful, that, after all, our own dear Doctor Mac had not been metamorphosed into an ogre with icicle eyes. As the tiny, merciful piston went home, I said feebly, with malice aforethought.

"h.e.l.lo--_Doctor Jumpy_!"

And the last thing I saw before I fell asleep was his startled face.

And in my first half-dreams, I found myself repeating, childishly, "He did jump! He _did_. And I made him!"

And that, Dear Diary, was my informal introduction to the nervous nephew of Mr. John Denton.