“That's a splendid idea, Fritz; you always seem to be able to construct some sort of a highroad out of every difficulty;” and Mr. Harris said, “Thank you, madam,” with an affectation of profound gratitude; but for all that he was none the less truly grateful. We are a little too apt, most of us, to assume too much with our nearest and dearest--to take for granted that they know all the thoughts of our heart, and so seldom put our praise of them into words. But what a mistake! Is there anything so precious in all this world as the openly expressed admiration of the people we really love? No matter how one pretends to receive it, it makes one feel very happy at heart all the same, and humble and grateful as well. You'd forgive this bit of what the critics call moralizing--it is all the outcome of that remark of Mrs. Harris's; nothing was further from my thoughts until she put it into my head by giving Mr. Harris that unexpected little compliment. It was the truth, however. He did have a genius for overcoming difficulties, instead of being overcome by them; and the particular difficulty of what had best be none with Donald being temporarily settled, they proceeded to give themselves wholly to the pleasure of the drive. They readjusted things in the comfortable little phaeton and tucked the lap-robe about them in trimmer fashion, and then the ponies, feeling a tightening grasp on the lines, and intuitively conscious of a whip poised at an easily descending angle, wisely saw fit to make up for lost time. Along the perfect English road they scampered, and out to Virginia Water, at the merriest pace, and then home again at a better pace still, so alluring to their pony imaginations were the box stalls and oats that lay in that direction. They only wished so much time did not have to be wasted after they reached there. How thoughtless it was to walk a pony, who had just come in from a long drive, up and down a lane for half an hour, just for the sake of giving a groom a little exercise! They did protest with their heels now and then, but that only meant a closer, more uncomfortable grip on the halter, and made matters rather worse than better. And so what wonder, with all this fuss and senseless bother, that Mr. Harris had written and mailed a letter to Mr. Christopher Hartley before the ponies had gotten so much as their noses within their own box stalls! As for the letter, you would have thought it harmless enough could you have looked over Mr. Harris's shoulder as he wrote it. It simply related the facts about Donald, and asked if old Mr. and Mrs. Hartley would not be good enough to take him to board for the rest of the summer, and if Chris would not contrive to keep him occupied about the farm in some way that should not overtax his newly gained strength. That was all there was in it, and yet can you not surmise how even that letter was calculated to work great consternation in the mind of some one in the little thatched cottage--some one who never saw the letter itself, and who did not so much as know of its existence until it had been read and re-read and thought over and answered, but who when one day he was made acquainted with its contents felt as weak as a kitten for hours afterward? He happened to be lying on the lounge in the living-room at the time, the same lounge to which he had been carried more dead than alive apparently, just four weeks before. He looked very pale and white still, but the doctor said he was getting on as fast as could be expected, only Ted--for of course it is Ted we are talking about--wished he might have been expected to get on just five times faster. He had had a great deal of time to think during the first part of his illness--in fact, he had had nothing else to do, for the doctor would not let him use his eyes--and he had made up his mind that when he was himself once more he was going to begin life all over again, and naturally he was anxious to get to work. There was that in his face, however, that showed plainly enough that he had begun already, though he did not in the least suspect it; an earnest, thoughtful look that even bluff old Mr. Hartley was quick to detect.