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 "What on earth will they think? O, Philip, I'm so sorry to lie here and do nothing and have you plan and look out for every thing. But I feel too sick even to fret."

"Depend on it, they will think that we have had good common sense and certainly the best of reasons for taking the hint that this big open house of theirs gave us. O, I'm not afraid of the Probascos!" he returned, in honest unconcern. "One can see what sort of people they are. I'm only too anxious for the pleasure of their acquaintance. As for your lying there, why, there's nothing for you to do if you had six legs and could walk on all of them! And I am certainly glad if you don't 'worry.' What's the use of worrying?"

"Are those letters you spoke of written?"

"All ready; and two telegrams with them, to send by the first hand that comes along. (Fancy a hand coming along by itself! I don't think I'd care to shake it.)"

But Gerald's imagination could not be interested. He mused. Then he murmured, "Poor papa!" with another nervous turn of his body, "Give me another swallow of water, please, Philip." He drank thirstily. "Cold, isn't it?