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room—so different from my room at home—the care everybody took of me, the books that were read to me, the sense of being here so securely, with everything just as I liked it, and with Mrs. Carroll to look after me—all that was delicious. The one jarring note was my father's letter, which I read, and then put back in its envelope. It was about my escape, how near to death I had been, and how he hoped the mercy that had been shown me would make me think seriously. I did not want to think seriously: I wanted to bask in the sunshine of these pleasant days while they lasted. If I had died it would have been all over by this time, and since I hadn't, why should I be different? It seemed to me hardly the time to talk of God's mercy, seeing that I had barely scraped through a severe illness. It was like thanking a man, who has just broken your head with a stick, for not killing you outright. My father talked of a miracle, but I had slender faith in miracles, and I regret to say his entire letter struck me as amazingly unintelligent. In a kind of lazy and sublime egotism I began to ponder on the oddity of a man like my father having a son such as I was; and while I was engaged with these speculations Mrs. Carroll sat beside me, playing "patience." She told me my father could not come to see me for fear of carrying the infection to school, and I received these tidings with an immense relief, for I had been dreading that he would want to talk to me about death, and perhaps make me join in returning thanks for my recovery. I watched her as she sat there, her plump hands drawing out the cards, her eyes seriously scanning the faces of those already turned up. She was a large, placid lady, stout and ruddy. She must always, even in her earliest youth, have been plain, but her face was filled with an extraordinary kindness that made it infinitely pleasant. It was not the sort of kindness which can be simulated; it was something that was a natural part of her, and was reflected in all she