Even his wrinkled hands, so soft and white, and his glistening head, and his dabs of gray whiskers, and his sweet, firm, human mouth were precious to him.

Peter--his friend, his father, his comrade! Could he ever insult him by such a mean, cowardly feeling as gratitude?
And was the woman he loved as he loved nothing else in life--was she--was Ruth going to belittle their relations with the same substitute?
It was a big pin, that which Miss Felicia had impaled him on, and it is no wonder the poor fluttering wings were nigh exhausted in the struggle! Relief came at last.
"And now what shall I tell her ?" asked Miss Felicia.

"She worries more over you than she does over her father; she can get hold of him any minute, but you won't be presentable for a week.

Come, what shall I tell her ?" Jack shifted his shoulders so that he could move the easier and with less pain, and raised himself on his well elbow.

There was no use of his hoping any more; she had evidently sent Miss Felicia to end the matter with one of her polite phrases,--a weapon which she, of all women, knew so well how to use.
"Give Miss Ruth my kindest regards," he said in a low voice, still husky from the effects of the smoke and the strain of the last half-hour--"and say how thankful I am for her gratitude, and--No,--don't tell her anything of the kind.