"The sick man."
"Mr. King!" ejaculated Miss Barry.
King! His name was King! That settled it. Blanche Aurora's heart bled for the gay, broad-shouldered young man who had gained her sympathy, but Miss Linda's wishes were paramount.
"Let's take him here and cure him," she repeated stoutly.
"You're perfectly crazy, child," was the startled reply. "I shouldn't consider taking a man into my house; and I think they'll make out all right at Luella's with our help. I shall let you take nice things over to him once in a while."
Blanche Aurora's breast swelled with excitement. She should see the King: see the wonderful person who could wring tears from the powerful and self-contained Miss Linda; but at the same time she felt very, very sorry for Fred Whitcomb. Going about to get supper she narrowly escaped scorching the biscuit and she poured the tea into the water pitcher.
The long evening had dimmed to twilight when Mrs. Porter appeared at Linda's open door. The girl had left it ajar as an invitation to her.
"What's this? What are you doing?" asked the older woman cheerily as she descried the face on the pillow.
"Hating myself," returned Linda briefly.
Mrs. Porter's pleasant laugh sounded. "There's nothing in that," she returned, and she came and sat on the foot of the bed.