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As the days sped by, Coningsby's condition steadily improved until at last he was entirely out of danger. Soon he was able to sit up, and eventually a morning came, warm and beautiful, when he could go out into the garden.

In front of the house, down near the river, stood a summer-house, delightfully charming, almost hidden beneath the maze of climbing vines and flowers which scrambled up the moss-covered logs on every side. From this little retreat, the house could not be seen, and in no matter whatsoever direction one turned no sign of life was visible; nothing save hills and river and sky. Of course there were homesteads, hidden by the trees, only a very short distance away, but as these were not apparent they did not disturb the soft, cool harmony of repose.

Often as Coningsby sat in the summer-house, Olga read books to him, stories which he seldom heard, so intent was he in gazing on the face of the reader and dreaming of the future. Daily Olga said, "I must tell him the truth to-morrow." But ever she put off the confession, for she could not summon up sufficient courage.

One morning, out in the summer-house, Coningsby said: "A year ago to-day, I stood upon the banks of a river in East Africa and cursed the jungle because The Actress