DEAR MR. KING: 

I had not meant to write to you for much longer than this, but I find myself so anxious to know how you are that I am yielding to the temptation.  I may as well confess that I am just a little lonely to-night, in spite of having had a pretty good day with the little book—­rather better than usual.  Sometimes I almost wish I hadn’t spent that fortnight with Mrs. Burns, I find myself missing her so.  And yet, how can one be sorry for any happy thing that comes to one?  As I look back on them now, though I am well and strong again, those days of convalescence in the hospital stand out as among the happiest in my life.  The pleasant people, the flowers, the notes, all the incidents of that time, not the least among them Franz’s music, stay in my memory like a series of pictures.

     Do you care to tell me how you come on?  If so you may write to
     me, care of general delivery, in this town, at any time for
     the next five days.  I shall be so glad to hear.

     ANNE LINTON.

King looked up as his mother approached.  He folded the letter and put it into his pocket.

“Mother,” he said, “I may as well tell you something.  You won’t approve of it, and that is why I must tell you.  From the hour I first saw Miss Linton I’ve been unable to forget her.  I know, by every sign, that she is all she seems to be.  I can’t let her go out of my life without an effort to keep her.  I’m going to keep her, if I can.”

Two hours later R.P.  Burns, M.D., was summoned to the bedside of Mrs. Alexander King.  He sat down beside the limp form, felt the pulse, laid his hand upon the shaking shoulder of the prostrate lady, who had gone down before her son’s decision, gentle though his manner with her had been.  She had argued, prayed, entreated, wept, but she had not been able to shake his purpose.  Now she was reaping the consequences of her agitation.

“My son, my only boy,” she moaned as Burns asked her to tell him her trouble, “after all these years of his being such a man, to change suddenly into a willful boy again!  It’s inconceivable; it’s not possible!  Doctor, you must tell him, you must argue with him.  He can’t marry this girl, he can’t!  Why, he doesn’t even know the place she comes from, to say nothing of who she is—­her family, her position in life.  She must be a common sort of creature to follow him up so; you know she must.  I can’t have it; I will not have it!  You must tell him so!”

Burns considered.  There was a curious light in his eyes.  “My dear lady,” he said gently at length, “Jordan is a man; you can’t control him.  He is a mighty manly man, too—­as his frankly telling you his intention proves.  Most sons would have kept their plans to themselves, and simply have brought the mother home her new daughter some day without any warning.  As for Miss Linton, I assure you she is a lady—­as it seems to me you must have seen for yourself.”