"You've said it yourself."

"What?"

"That line we read the other night about `the luckless Pot'."

His face went gray and he fell back on his pillows. The strenuous
life we'd been leading him, Tom and I, was too much for him, I
guess.

Do you know, I really felt sorry I'd said it. But he is a
cripple. Did he expect me to say he was big and strong and
dashing--like Tom?

I left him there and got out and away. But do you know what I
saw, Mag, beside his bed, just as Burnett came to put me out?

My old blue coat with the buttons--the bell-boy's coat I'd left
in the housekeeper's room when I borrowed her Sunday rig. The
coat was hanging over a chair, and right by it, on a table, was
that big book with a picture covering every page, still open at
that verse about

Through this same Garden--and for ONE in vain!



IV.