“I thought so; or he’d have forgotten the necessary roof!—Come in!—Goodness! it’s your room and I locked the door! Do excuse me; I’ll open it. A telegram for you.—Wait outside for an answer, Jimmy.”

I tore open the envelope, confidently expecting that Cousin Sarah had been struck with paralysis; instead of which I read:

Archville, Pennsylvania,

June 16

Have this moment secured a large and important contract assuring two years’ lucrative work. May I come to see you immediately? Name earliest day.

R. M.

I handed the message to the Kitten, who read it and exclaimed: “I knew he was only waiting for the roof! You see he doesn’t worry about my prospects—selfish pig! Answer it and say Thursday—you can get well by Thursday, can’t you?—for I want to send for Tom on the same day. There’s a polo game at home on Saturday, and Tom has a new motor car. Tell Dick the best hotel in the town is the Brooks House. I must wire to Laura, too. I shall say, let me see: I shall say: ‘You shouldn’t have left me. I couldn’t be noble alone.’ That’s just ten words. She’ll understand fast enough, and it will pave the way for you when you explain the situation to her. We’ll leave the sanitarium Friday and get your Cousin Sarah to chaperon us on the journey home. Here, I’ve written my messages, now do yours—hurry! There!—Jimmy, you’re too old to play with matches, aren’t you?”

“Yes, marm.”

“Very well, then, you can be trusted with these two telegrams. Don’t hold them near the fire; there’s a match in each of them.”

SECOND WEEK

As a patient Dr. Levi says I am almost as great a credit to the institution as Mrs. Chittenden-Ffollette herself.

Monday.—I slept all day, waking only for meals.

Tuesday.—The handcuffs slipped off my wrists and the balls and chains off my ankles.

Wednesday.—My headache, sideache, backache, and shoulderache disappeared. Breakfasted with the doctor on coffee, hot biscuits, beefsteak, and griddle cakes with sausage.

Thursday.—Richard Morton came.

Friday.—Dismissed as completely cured.

“The dimensions of this mercy are above my thoughts,” as Cromwell wrote after the Worcester fight.