bruised eye. He had regained his color and his smile, which beamed—with some doubtful intervals—on Mary Langton. She was wearing a lace cap and negligee, enchantingly adorned with old rose ribbons; and she replied to Barney’s smile with one of a protecting benevolence that remembered putting him to bed.
The third at the table was an athletic-looking young man in a shooting costume, whom Barney had recognized as the missing Whately in spite of his new mustache that continually attracted his fingers. Hat in hand, he had wakened Barney in a bedroom upstairs, where Barney had been as much surprised to find himself as to see Whately; but no questions had been asked on either side. He had brought Barney some underclothes and a dressing gown that were too large for him. “Your own things are still drying in the kitchen,” he said. “Breakfast ’s ready.”
It was he who bandaged Barney’s wounds, amused by the boy’s blinking and troubled si-
