"See here!" he called. "Tell me I can't get up to-morrow? Why, I could walk!"
They had a very merry time while he ate. Mary remembered that afterwards, with a bruised wonder that laughter comes so cheap. Johnnie talked incessantly, not any more of the wonders of the deep, but what he meant to do when he got into the world again.
"How'd I come here in your house, any way?" he asked. "Mattie and Adam put me here to get rid of me? Tell me all over again."
"I take care of folks, you know," answered Mary briefly. "I have, for more'n two years. It's my business."
Johnnie looked at her a moment, crimsoning as he tried to speak.
"What you goin' to ask?"
Mary started. Then she answered steadily,—
"That's all right. I don't ask much, anyway; but when folks don't have ready money, I never ask anything. There, you mustn't talk no more, even if you are well. I've got to wash these dishes."
She left him to his meditations, and only once more that evening did they speak together. When she came to the door, to say good-night, he was flat among his pillows, listening for her.
"Say!" he called, "you come in. No, you needn't unless you want to; but if ever I earn another cent of money, you'll see. And I ain't the only friend you've got. There's a girl down in Southport would do anything in the world for you, if she only knew."