mar, clipping off his words. But I'd hate like Sam Hill to think it was, and there's been enough mistakes made in similar cases, when you come to think of them, to stir up the perky feeling I'm hankering for, so I'm indulging it—guess that's about all there is to it."
With a grunt, that embodied both tolerant contempt and a sense of disappointment. Warden Rand picked up his pipe from the table and began to pack the dottle down into the bowl with agitated jabs of his forefinger.
Doctor Kreelmar watched the process for a moment with quizzical contentment; then he looked over at Janet, and his face puckered suddenly. He began to hum under his breath, beating time with his fingers on the arm of his chair. She had gone back to the sofa, picked up her work and was toying with it listlessly, distrait and thoughtful.
"Hum!" said the little man abruptly. "Convalescents who have to get up very early in the morning with a journey ahead of them should be in bed." He turned to the warden, who since the fire had been sleeping in the penitentiary office. "I've got to see that typhoid case at the prison. Rand; and I'll walk up with you, if you're ready to go."
Warden Rand got up from his chair. "Yes," he said. "All right. Yes; I suppose you should be in bed, Janet." He crossed to her and kissed her. "Good-night, dear"—he pinched her cheek tenderly. "This mustn't spoil my little girl's sleep, you know."
"I'll try not to let it," she answered. "Good-night, dad." Then, holding out her hand to Doctor Kreelmar: "Good-night and good-bye, doctor. You'll look after dad while I'm away, won't you?" she smiled.
