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 he do for us. Sometimes, you know, he’ll make himself quite handy, bringing in pails of water and wood. But this week if we sent him to the well he’d try to climb down into it. I thought once, ‘If you’d only shoot down there head-first everything would be nicely settled.’”

“Oh, Miss Cornelia!”

“Now, you needn’t Miss Cornelia me, Anne, dearie. anybody would have thought the same. If the Montreal doctors can make a rational creature out of Dick Moore they’re wonders.”

Leslie took Dick to Montreal early in May. Gilbert went with her, to help her, and make the necessary arrangements for her. He came home with the report that the Montreal surgeon whom they had consulted agreed with him that there was a good chance of Dick’s restoration.

“Very comforting,” was Miss Cornelia’s sarcastic comment.

Anne only sighed. Leslie had been very distant at their parting. But she had promised to write. Ten days after Gilbert’s return the letter came. Leslie wrote that the operation had been successfully performed and that Dick was making a good recovery.

“What does she mean by ‘successfully?’” asked Anne. “Does she mean that Dick’s memory is really restored?”

“Not likely—since she says nothing of it,” said Gilbert. “She uses the word ‘successfully’ from the