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 and from his home and his library and his profession, yes, I’ve an idea that he is rather wonderful.”

“He’s just the only wonder of his kind,” said the small person with the wide-spread downward gesture that was becoming familiar to Jamie.

Then the question came abruptly: “Was he awful sick?”

Jamie looked into the wide eyes of comprehension before him and thought of neither lie nor evasion.

“Yes,” he said. “He was the sickest man I ever saw, and I’ve certainly seen some sick ones!”

“You can’t tell me much about him,” said the small person. “I’ve helped him up the back walk and to the davenport and gotten the ammonia a few times when I didn’t ever think I’d pull him through. I’ve seen him suffer until the sweat would run right down and drop off the tip of his nose, just a drop at a time, slow, and fall on his shirt front, splat! splat!—and I’ll tell the world, it’s pretty awful! If he’s sick like that again, maybe he’d better go on and die.”

At the casual tone in which the suggestion was uttered, Jamie reeled back on the seat and stared hard at the impersonal face of the youngster before him. He had been under the impression that this child adored the Bee Master. At that minute he felt that he was facing a little pagan who did not adore anything, or even have a fair conception of what the word might mean. Yet there had been considerable conception of what the word might mean in the instructions as to how he was to whistle