The long weeks dragged by and, at last, the end of Barbara's imprisonment drew near. The red-haired young man who had previously assisted Doctor Conrad came down with one of the nurses and removed the heavy plaster cast. The nurse taught Miriam how to massage Barbara with oils and exercise the muscles that had never been used.

"Doctor Conrad told me," said the red-haired young man, "to take your father back with me to-morrow, if you were ready to have him go. The sooner the better, he thought."

Barbara turned away, with love and terror clutching coldly at her heart. "Perhaps," she said, finally. "I'll talk with father to-night."

Her own forgotten agony surged back into her remembrance, magnified an hundred fold. Fear she had never had for herself strongly asserted itself now, for him. "If it should come out wrong," she thought, "I could never forgive myself—never in the wide world."

When the doctor and nurse had gone to the hotel and Miriam was busy getting supper, Ambrose North came quietly into Barbara's room.

"How are you, dear?" he asked, anxiously.

"I'm all right, Daddy, except that I feel very queer. It's all different, some way. Like the old woman in Mother Goose, I wonder if this can be I."

There was a long pause. "Are they going back to-morrow," he asked, "the doctor and nurse who came down to-day?"

"Yes," answered Barbara, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

The old man took her hand in his and leaned over her. "Dear," he pleaded, "may I go, too?"

Barbara was startled. "Have they said anything to you?"

"No, I was just thinking that I could go with them as well as with Doctor Conrad. It is so long to wait," he sighed.

"I cannot bear to have you hurt," answered Barbara, with a choking sob.

"I know," he said, "but I bore it for you. Have you forgotten?"

There was no response in words, but she breathed hard, every shrill respiration fraught with dread.

"Flower of the Dusk," he pleaded, "may I go?"

"Yes," she sobbed. "I have no right to say no."

"Dear, don't cry." The old man's voice was as tender as though she had been the merest child. "The dream is coming true at last—that you can walk and I can see. Think what it will mean to us both. And oh, Barbara, think what it will be to me to see the words your dear mother wrote to you—to know, from her own hand, that she died loving me."

Barbara suddenly turned cold. The hand that seemingly had clutched her heart was tearing unmercifully at the tender fibre now. He would read her mother's letter and know that his beloved Constance was in love with another; that she took her own life because she could bear it no more. He would know that they were poor, that the house was shabby, that the pearls and laces and tapestries had all been sold. He would know, inevitably, that Barbara's needle had earned their living for many years; he would see, in the dining-room, the pitiful subterfuge of the bit of damask, one knife and fork of solid silver, one fine plate and cup. Above all, he would know that Barbara herself had systematically lied to him ever since she could talk at all. And he had a horror of a lie.

"Don't," she cried, weakly. "Don't go."

"You promised Barbara," he said, gently. Then he added, proudly: "The Norths never go back on their spoken or written word. It is in the blood to be true and you have promised. I shall go to-morrow."

Barbara cringed and shrank from him. "Don't, dear," he said. "Your hands are cold. Let me warm them in mine. I fear that to-day has been too much for you."

"I think it has," she answered. The words were almost a whisper.

"Then, don't try to talk, Barbara. I will talk to you. I know how you feel about my going, but it is not necessary, for I do not fear in the least for myself. I am sure that the dream is coming true, but, if it should not—why, we can bear it together, dear, as we have borne everything. The ways of the Everlasting are not our ways, but my faith is very strong.

"If the dream comes true, as I hope and believe it will, you and I will go away, dear, and see the world. We shall go to Europe and Egypt and Japan and India, and to the Southern islands, to Greece and Constantinople—I have planned it all. Aunt Miriam can stay here, or we will take her with us, just as you choose. When you can walk, Barbara, and I can see, I shall draw a large check, and we will start at the first possible moment. The greatest blessing of money, I think, is the opportunity it gives for travel. I have been glad, too, so many times, that we are able to afford all these doctors and nurses. Think of the poor people who must suffer always because they cannot command services which are necessarily high-priced."

Barbara's senses reeled and the cold, steel fingers clutched more closely at the aching fibre of her heart. Until this moment, she had not thought of the financial aspects of her situation—it had not occurred to her that Doctor Conrad and the blue and white nurses and even the red-haired young man would expect to be paid. And when her father went to the hospital—"I shall have to sew night and day all the rest of my life," she thought, "and, even then, die in debt."

But over and above and beyond it all stood the Lie, that had lived in her house for twenty years and more and was now to be cast out, if—Barbara's heart stood still in horror because, for the merest fraction of an instant, she had dared to hope that her father might never see again.

"I could not have gone alone," the old man was saying, "and even if I could, I should never have left you, but now, I think, the time is coming. I have dreamed all my life of the strange countries beyond the sea, and longed to go. Your dear mother and I were going, in a little while, but—" His lips quivered and he stopped abruptly.

"What would you see, Daddy, if you had your choice? Tell me the three things in the world that you most want to see." With supreme effort, Barbara put self aside and endeavoured to lead him back to happier things.

"Three things?" he repeated. "Let me think. If God should give me back my sight for the space of half an hour before I died, I should choose to see, first, your dear mother's letter in which she says that she died loving me; next, your mother herself as she was just before she died, and then, dear, my Flower of the Dusk—my baby whom I never have seen. Perhaps," he added, thoughtfully, "perhaps I should rather see you than Constance, for, in a very little while, I should meet her past the sunset, where she has waited so long for me. But the letter would come first, Barbara—can you understand?"

"Yes," she breathed, "I understand."

The hope in her heart died. She could not ask for the letter. He took it from his pocket as though it were a jewel of great price. "Put my finger on the words that say, 'I love him still.'"

Blinded with tears and choked by sobs, Barbara pointed out the line. That, at least, was true. The old man raised it to his lips as a monk might raise his crucifix when kneeling in penitential prayer.

"I keep it always near me," he said, softly. "I shall keep it until I can see."

Long after he had gone to bed, Barbara lay trembling. The problem that had risen up before her without warning seemed to have no possible solution. If he recovered his sight, she could not keep him from knowing their poverty. One swift glance would show him all—and destroy his faith in her. That was unavoidable. But—need he know that the dead had deceived him too?

The innate sex-loyalty, which is strong in all women who are really fine, asserted itself in full power now. It was not only the desire to save her father pain that made Barbara resolve, at any cost, to keep the betraying letter from him. It was also the secret loyalty, not of a child to an unknown mother, but of woman to woman—of sex to sex.

The house was very still. Outside, a belated cricket kept up his cheery fiddling as he fared to his hidden home. Sometimes a leaf fell and rustled down the road ahead of a vagrant wind. The clock ticked monotonously. Second by second and minute by minute, To-Morrow advanced upon Barbara; that To-Morrow which must be made surely right by the deeds of To-Day.

"If I could go," murmured Barbara. She was free of the plaster and she could move about in bed easily. Ironically enough, her crutches leaned against the farther wall, in sight but as completely out of reach as though they were in the next room.

Barbara sat up in bed and, cautiously, placed her two tiny bare feet on the floor. With great effort, she stood up, sustained by a boundless hope. She discovered that she could stand, even though she ached miserably, but when she attempted to move, she fell back upon the bed. She could not walk a step.

Faint with fear and pain, she got back into bed. She knew, now, all that the red-haired young man had refused to tell her. He was too kind to say that she was not to walk, after all. He was leaving it for Doctor Conrad—or Eloise.

Objects in the room danced before her mockingly. Her crutches were veiled by a mist—those friendly crutches which had served her so well and were now out of her reach. But Barbara had no time for self-pity. The dominant need of the hour was pressing heavily upon her.

With icy, shaking fingers, Barbara rang her bell. Presently Miriam came in, attired in a flannel dressing-gown which was hopelessly unbecoming. Barbara was moved to hysterical laughter, but she bit her lips.

"Aunt Miriam," she said, trying to keep her voice even, "father has a letter of mine in his coat pocket which I should like to read again to-night. Will you bring me his coat, please?"

Miriam turned away without a word. Her face was inscrutable.

"Don't wake him," called Barbara, in a shrill whisper. "If he is not asleep, wait until he is. I would not have him wakened, but I must have the coat to-night."

From his closed door came the sound of deep, regular breathing. Miriam turned the knob noiselessly, opened the door, and slipped in. When her eyes became accustomed to the darkness, she found the coat easily. It had not taken long. Even Barbara might well be surprised at her quickness.

Perhaps the letter was not in his coat—it might be somewhere else. At any rate, it would do no harm to make sure before going in to Barbara. Miriam went into her own room and calmly lighted a candle.

Yes, the letter was there—two sheets: one in ink, in Constance's hand, the other, in pencil, written by Barbara. Why should Barbara write to one who was blind?

With her curiosity now thoroughly aroused, Miriam hastily read both letters, then put them back. Her lips were curled in a sneer when she took the coat into Barbara's room and gave it to her without speaking.

The girl thrust an eager hand into the inner pocket and, with almost a sob of relief, took out her mother's letter and her own version of it.

"Thank you, Aunty," breathed Barbara. "I am sorry—to—to—disturb you, but there was no—other way."

Miriam went out, as quietly as she had come, carrying the coat and leaving Barbara's door ajar. When she was certain that she was alone, Barbara tore the letter into shreds. So much, at least, was sure. Her father should never see them, whatever he might think of her.

Miriam was standing outside the blind man's door. She fancied she heard him stir. It did not matter—there was plenty of time before morning to return the coat. She took it back into her own room and sat down to think.

Her mirror reflected her face and the unbecoming dressing-gown. The candlelight, however, was kind. It touched gently upon the grey in her hair, hid the dark hollows under her eyes, and softened the lines in her face. It lent a touch of grace to her work-worn hands, moving nervously in her lap.

After twenty-one years, this was what Constance had to say to Barbara—that she loved another man, that Ambrose North was not to know it, and that she did not quite trust Miriam. Also that Miriam had loved Ambrose North and had never quite forgiven Constance for taking him away from her.

Out of the shadow of the grave, Miriam's secret stared her in the face. She had not dreamed, until she read the letter, that Constance knew. Barbara knew now, too. Miriam was glad that Barbara had the letter, for she knew that, in all probability, she would destroy it.

The elaborate structure of deceit which they had so carefully reared around the blind man was crumbling, even now. If he recovered his sight, it must inevitably fall. He would know, in an instant of revelation, that Miriam was old and ugly and not beautiful, as she had foolishly led him to believe, years ago, when he asked how much time had changed her. She looked pitifully at her hands, rough and knotted and red through untiring slavery for him and his.

She and Barbara would be sacrificed—no, for he would forgive Barbara anything. She was the only one who would lose through his restored vision, unless Constance might, in some way, be revealed to him as she was.

"I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father and I took him away from her." The cruel sentences moved crazily before her as in letters of fire.

The letter was gone. Ambrose North would never see the evidence of Constance's distrust of her, nor come, without warning, upon Miriam's pitiful secret which, with a woman's pride, she would hide from him at all costs. None the less, Constance had stabbed her again. A ghostly hand clutching a dagger had suddenly come up from the grave, and the thrust of the cold, keen steel had been very sure.

For twenty years and more, she had been tempted to read to the blind man the letter Constance had written to Laurence Austin just before she died. For that length of time, her desire to blacken Constance, in the hope that the grief-stricken heart might once more turn to her, had warred with her love and her woman's fear of hurting the one she loved. To-night, even in the face of the letter to Barbara, she knew that she should never have courage to read it to him, nor even to give it to him with her own hands.

In case he recovered his sight, she might leave it where he would find it. She was glad, now, that the envelope was torn, for he would not be apt to open a letter addressed to another, even though Constance had penned the superscription and the man to whom it was addressed was dead. His fine sense of honour would, undoubtedly, lead him to burn it. But, if the letter were in a plain envelope, sealed, and she should leave it on his dresser, he would be very sure to open it, if he saw it lying there, and then——

Miriam smiled. Constance would be paid at last for her theft of another woman's suitor, for her faithlessness and her cowardly desertion. There was a heavy score against Constance, who had so belied the meaning of her name, and the twenty years had added compound interest. North might not—probably would not—turn again to Miriam after all these years; she saw that plainly to-night for the first time, but he would, at any rate, see that he had given up the gold for the dross.

Miriam got her work-box and began to mend the coat lining. She had not known that it was torn. She wondered how he would feel when he discovered that the precious letter was lost. Would he blame Barbara—or her?

It would be too bad to have him lose the comfort those two sheets of paper had given him. Miriam had seen him as he sat alone for hours in his own room, with the door ajar, caressing the written pages as though they were alive and answered him with love for love. She knew it was Constance's letter to Barbara, but she had lacked curiosity as to its contents until to-night.

The letter to Laurence Austin was written on paper of the same size. There was still some of it, in Constance's desk, in the living-room downstairs. Suppose she should replace one letter with the other, and, if he ever read it, let him have it all out with Barbara, who was trying to save him from knowledge that he should have had long ago.

The coat slipped to the floor as Miriam considered the plan. Perhaps one of them would ask her what it was. In that case she would say, carelessly: "Oh, a letter Constance left for Laurence Austin. I did not think it best to deliver it, as it could do no good and might do a great deal of harm." She would have the courage for that, surely, but, if she failed at the critical moment, she could say, simply: "I do not know."

She crept downstairs and returned with a sheet of Constance's note-paper. Neither she nor Barbara had ever been obliged to use it, and it was far back in a corner of a deep drawer, together with North's check-book, which had been useless for so many years.

As she had expected, it exactly matched the other sheet. She folded the two together, with the letter to Laurence Austin inside. North would not be disappointed, now, when he reached into his pocket and found no fond letter from his dead but still beloved Constance. Barbara could not change this, by rewriting into anything save a cry of passionate love.

Miriam's whole being glowed with satisfaction. She thrilled with the pleasure of this subtle revenge upon Constance, who was fully repaid, now, for writing as she had.

"I do not quite trust Miriam. She loved your father and I took him away from her."

She repeated the words in a whisper, and smiled to think of the deeply loving, passionate page to another man that had filled the place. Let the Fates do their worst now, for when he should read it——

Some way, Miriam was very sure that his sight was to be restored to him. She perceived, now, the irony of his caressing the letter Constance had written to Barbara. How much more ironical it would be to see him, with that unearthly light upon his face, moving his hand across the page Constance had written to Laurence Austin just before she died. Miriam well knew that the other letters had come first and that Constance's last word had been to the man she loved.

The hours passed on, slowly. The mist that hung over the sea was faintly touched with dawn before Miriam arose, and, taking the coat, went back to Ambrose North's room. She paused outside the door, but all was still.

She entered, quietly, and laid the coat on a chair. She started back to the door, but, before she touched the knob, the blind man stirred in his sleep.

"Constance," he said, drowsily, "is that you? Have you come back, Beloved? It has seemed so long."

Miriam set her lips grimly against the surging hatred for the dead that welled up within her. She went out hastily, and noiselessly closed the door.