"That boy" looked up, smiling, with long years of loneliness and
lameness written in the back of his glance. "Please don't make 'em stop,
doctor," he begged. "I won't spoil easily. I haven't any start. And this
is a fairy-story to me--wonderful people like you letting me--letting me
belong. I can't believe I won't wake up. Don't you imagine it will go
to my head. It won't. I'm just so blamed--grateful."

The deep young voice trailed, and the doctor made haste to answer.
"You're all right, my lad," he said, "As soon as lunch is over you come
into the surgery and I'll have a glance at the leg." Which was done.

After half an hour David came out, limping, pale and radiant. "I can't
believe it," he spoke breathless. "He says--it's a simple--operation.
I'll walk--like other men. I'll be right for--the service." He choked.

At that Mrs. Cabell sped across the room and put up hands either side of
the young face and drew it down and kissed the lad whom she did not,
this morning, know to be in existence. "You blessed boy," she whispered,
"you shall fight for America, and you'll be our soldier, and we'll be
your people." And David, kissing her again, looked over her head and saw
Eleanor glowing like a rose, and with a swift, unphrased shock of
happiness felt in his soul the wonder of a heaven that might happen.
Then they were all about the fire, half-crying, laughing, as people do
on top of strong feelings.

"Aunt Basha did it all," said David. "If Aunt Basha hadn't been the most
magnificent old black woman who ever carried a snow-white soul, if she
hadn't been the truest patriot in all America, if she hadn't given
everything for her country--I'd likely never have--found you." His eyes
went to the two kind and smiling faces, and his last word was a whisper.