Just before he went back to the hospital, refreshed by an hour's longer
sleep than he had meant to take, because Ellen would not wake him
sooner, Burns opened the pile of mail which had accumulated during his
absence. He sat on the arm of the blue couch, tossing the letters one by
one upon the table behind it, in two piles, one for his personal
consideration, the other for Miss Mathewson's answering. Ellen, happily
relaxing in a corner of the couch, her eyes watching the letter opening,
saw her husband's eyes widen as he stooped to pick up a small blue paper
which had fallen from the missive he had just slitted. As he unfolded
the blue slip and glanced at it, an astonished whistle leaped to his
lips.
"Well, by the powers--what's this?" he murmured. "A New York draft for a
thousand dollars, inclosed in a letter which says nothing except a
typewritten '_From One of the most grateful of all grateful patients_.'
Len, what do you think of that? Who on earth sent it? I haven't had a
rich patient who hasn't paid his bill, or who won't pay it in due form
when he gets around to it. And the poor ones don't send checks of this
size."
"I can't imagine," she said, studying the few words on the otherwise
blank sheet, and the postmark on the typewritten envelope, which showed
the letter also to have come from New York. "You haven't had a patient
lately who was travelling--a hotel case, or anything of that sort?"
He shook his head.
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