THE SOD ON THE PANE
"So we did; but he's all right. He's coming along nicely." Carron examined his patient with gratification. "To-morrow he'll be on his feet."
She fell on her knees beside the terrier, took his head between her hands, murmured reproaches of herself, and endearing words, promises of joy for the future—she would even let him chase rabbits. Then, springing up, she flung her arms around Carron and ecstatically whirled him. "What shall I do for you, who have done so much? It must be something very wonderful."
"You are going to do something more than wonderful," he answered.
"O, but over and above that," she insisted.
"There is nothing."
She let him have his way with his conviction. It was hers too. She went, her feet rushing on the stair. Never before, perhaps never afterward, did they have quite that wild music of joy in toes and heels.
He thought of it in his room that night, after the whole house was still. Like a refrain of delight it recurred between the soberer sentences of his discussion with Rader. Blanche's prophecy had been fulfilled. It had been fun telling the scholar. "What do you want to do that for?" he had demanded of
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