"Yes," she replied, "but it's empty, and the queer little things that
Zillah said were all 'mouth and swallow' are now pert young robins,
rollicking around the garden all day long. They remind me of Reuben and
Dapple. I love such fresh young life, unshadowed by care or experience."
"I believe you; and your sympathy with such life will always keep you young at heart. I can't imagine you growing old; indeed, truth is never old and feeble."
"You are very fanciful, Mr. Morton," she said, with a trace of perplexity again on her face.
"I have heard that that was a characteristic of sick people," I laughed.
"Yes; we have to humor them like children," she added, smoothing her brow as if this were an excuse for letting me express more admiration than she relished.
"Well," I admitted, "I've never been ill and made much of before, since I was a little fellow, and my mother spoiled me, and I've no idea how to behave. Even if I did, it would seem impossible to be conventional in this house. Am I not the most singularly fortunate man that ever existed? Like a fool I had broken myself down, and was destined to be ill. I started off as aimlessly as an arrow shot into the air, and here I am, enjoying your society and Mrs. Yocomb's care."
"It is indeed strange," she replied musingly, as if half speaking to herself; "so strange that I cannot understand it. Life is a queer tangle at best. That is, it seems so to us sometimes."
"I assure you I am glad to have it tangled for me in this style," I said, laughing. "My only dread is getting out of the snarl. Indeed, I'm sorely tempted to play sick indefinitely."
"In that case we shall all leave you here to yourself."
"I think you have done that already."