Old Mr. Wiley | Page 6

he wonderful? When may I have him all the time?"
"When you're well and don't need a night nurse," promised Miss
Beaver rashly and was rewarded by a broad smile from the courtly old
gentleman who tipped back his white-maned head and laughed silently
but whole-heartedly.
"I'll get well at once, nurse. Don't you think I might be well enough
tomorrow? Or the day after? Not," he added politely, making Miss
Beaver's heart ache with his childish apology, "not that I want you to
leave, you know."
"That will be for the doctor to decide, Frank. But the more you eat and
sleep and grow happy in your heart, the faster you'll get well," advised
Miss Beaver earnestly.
For a long happy hour young Frank fraternized with the fox-terrier
while the old gentleman sat silently observing him, a grimly humorous

smile hovering about his firm lips. Then the boy's eyes began to cloud
sleepily and much to Miss Beaver's surprise and pleasure Frank
relinquished his canine playmate and fell asleep, a blissful smile
curving his childish mouth as he breathed with soft regularity.
Then old Mr. Wiley picked up the puppy, tucked it under one blue-clad
arm and again admonishing Miss Beaver with a finger athwart his lips,
tiptoed from the room, closing the door behind very gently.
The nurse thought with a sigh of relief that the old gentleman had
looked both pleased and gratified. She herself could hardly wait for
morning, and for the day to pass, and was both pleased and encouraged
herself when she went on duty the next night. Frank had asked to sit up
for supper and when Miss Beaver entered the room he manfully refused
the day nurse's assistance back to bed. The day nurse's up-lifted brows
betrayed her astonishment at the sudden turn for the better the young
patient had taken.
"I'm almost well," piped up Frank Wiley IV, the moment the door
closed behind the day nurse. "Tomorrow, the doctor says, I can sit out
in the garden in the sun. Couldn't I have Spot then?"
"You just leave that to me," said Miss Beaver determinedly. "I may
have much to say about your keeping Spot, Frank."
In her heart she was in reality panic-stricken for she knew that pretty
Mrs. Wiley would indifferently laugh off the idea that ownership of a
dog could mean returned health to her little son. Upon Frank Wiley III
Miss Beaver felt no reliance could be placed; he was an uxorious
weakling. Her unfounded hope rested on old Mr. Wiley alone; old Mr.
Wiley whose firm mouth and implacable dark eyes made her feel that
he, and he alone, held the key to the situation. That he had realized
young Frank's need and had filled it, albeit in secret, gave her to believe
that he would also furnish such good reason for yielding to young
Frank's boyish yearning as would make Mrs. Frank retire in disorder
from any contest of clashing wills.
But when the old gentleman stepped into the room that night he did not

carry the little dog under his arm; what he had was something bulkier.
He stopped beside the basket which had been sent to Miss Beaver and
which she had not yet opened. He leaned down and released the lid. A
little fox-terrier jumped out and stood, one small paw upheld, its head
cocked to one side.
Miss Beaver drew in a quick gasping breath of admiring amazement at
what she realized was the doctor's unusual prescription. If only old Mr.
Wiley would stand by, to uphold it, she felt that the boy would recover.
She drew his attention with a gesture.
"See how nicely our patient's coming along, Mr. Wiley," she whispered.
"Oh, please, won't you make them let him keep the little dog Doctor
Parris sent him? You can. I know you can."
* * * * *
Old Mr. Wiley leaned over the bed, apparently taking pleased note of
the faint color on the boy's cheeks. He smiled with obvious satisfaction.
He lifted his head, met Miss Beaver's pleading eyes, and nodded
emphatically. Then he slackened his hold on whatever he had tucked
under one arm and deposited it at the foot of the bed, meeting Miss
Beaver's questioning eyes with a significant narrowing of his own. She
looked at the thing, then up at him, puzzled. What he had brought in
was one of those huge, plush-covered atrocities with tall ivory letters
on the front that proclaimed it to be a Family Album. She surmised that
this must be the album which the doctor had said she should look over
to note how closely the small boy in the bed resembled his ancestors.
With a light gesture old Mr. Wiley relegated the album to the
background, his glance