Barbara did not mind lying in bed, now that the heavy plaster cast was gone and she could move about with comparative freedom. Every day, Aunt Miriam massaged her with fragrant oils, and she faithfully took the slight exercises she was bidden to take, even though she knew it was of no use. She was glad, now, that she had kept the crutches in sight, for they had steadily reminded her not to hope too much.

Still, she was bitterly disappointed, though she thought she had not allowed herself to hope—that she had done it only because Eloise wanted her to. Perhaps the red-haired young man knew, and perhaps not—she was not so sure, now, that he had refrained from telling her through motives of kindness. But Doctor Conrad would know, instantly, and he and Eloise would be very sorry. Barbara wiped away her tears and compressed her lips tightly together. "I won't cry," she said to herself. "I won't, I won't, I won't."

Her father had gone to the city with the red-haired young man and the nurse. He had been gone more than a week, and Barbara had received no news of him save a brief note from Doctor Conrad. He said that her father had been to a specialist of whom he had spoken to her, and that an operation had been decided upon. He would tell her all about it, he added, when he saw her.

Day by day, Barbara lived over the last evening she and her father had spent together—all the fear and foreboding. She did not for a moment regret that she had taken his precious letter from him and destroyed it. She would face whatever she must, and as bravely as she might, but he should not be hurt in that manner—she had taken the one sure way to spare him that.

When he came back, and realised to the full how steadily she had deceived him, he could love her no more. When he said good-bye to her the morning he went away, it had been good-bye in more ways than one. It was a long farewell to the love and confidence that had bound him to her; an eternal separation, in spirit, from the child he had loved.

The tears came when she remembered how he had said good-bye to her. Aunt Miriam and the red-haired young man and the nurse had left them alone together for what might be the last time on earth, and was most surely the last time as regarded the old, sweet relation so soon to be severed—unless he came back blind, as he had gone.

The old man had leaned over her and kissed her twice. "Flower of the Dusk," he had said, with surpassing tenderness, "when I come back, the dusk will change to dawn. If the darkness lifts I shall see you first, and so, for a little while, good-bye."

He had gone downstairs quickly and lightly, as one who is glad to go. When she last saw him, he was walking ahead of the young doctor and the nurse, straight and eager and almost young again, sustained by the same boundless hope that had given Barbara strength for her ordeal.

It was almost two weeks before Doctor Conrad came down. He had been obliged, lately, to miss several Sundays with Eloise. When Aunt Miriam came and told Barbara that he was downstairs, she felt a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment, not for herself, but for him. He had tried so hard and done so much, and to know that he had failed— Even in the face of her own bitter outlook, she could be sorry for him.

But, when he came in, he did not seem to need anyone's sympathy. He was so magnificently young and strong, so full of splendid vitality. Barbara's failing courage rose in answer to him and she smiled as she offered a frail little hand.

"Well, little girl," said Doctor Allan, sitting down on the bed beside her, "how goes it?"

"Tell me about father," begged Barbara, ignoring the question.

"Father is doing very well," Allan assured her. "He has recovered nicely from the operation and we have strong hope for the sight of one eye if not for both. I can almost promise you partial restoration, but, of course, it is impossible to tell definitely until later. His heart is very weak—that seems to be the main trouble now."

Barbara lay very still, with her eyes closed.

"Aren't you glad?" asked Doctor Allan, in surprise.

"Yes," answered Barbara, with difficulty. "Indeed, yes. I was just thinking."

"A penny for your thoughts," he smiled.

"Are they going to take off the bandages there at the hospital?"

"Why, yes—of course."

"They mustn't!" cried Barbara, sitting up in bed. "Or, if they have to, I must go there. Doctor Conrad, I must see my father before he regains his sight."

"Why?" asked Allan. "Don't cry, little girl—tell me."

His voice was very soothing, and, as he spoke, he took hold of her fluttering hands. The strong clasp was friendly and reassuring.

"Because I've lied to him," sobbed Barbara.

"I've made him think we were rich instead of poor. He doesn't know that I've earned our living all these years by sewing, and that we've had to sell everything that anybody would buy—the pearls and laces and everything. He hates a lie and he'll despise me. It will break his heart. I'd rather tell him myself than to have him find it out."

"Little girl," said Allan, in his deep, tender voice; "dear little girl. Nobody on earth could blame you for doing that, least of all your father. If he's half the man I think he is, he'll only love you the more for doing it."

Barbara looked up at him, her deep blue eyes brimming with tears. "Do you think," she asked, chokingly, "that he ever can forgive me?"

Allan laughed. "In a minute," he assured her. "Of course he'll forgive you. But I'll promise you that you shall see him first. As far as that is concerned, I can take the bandages off myself, after he comes home."

"Can you really? And will you?"

"Surely. Now don't fret about it any more. Let's see how you're getting on."

In an instant the man was pushed into the background and the great surgeon took his place. He went at his work with the precision and power of a perfect machine, guided by that unspoken sympathy which was his inestimable gift. He tested muscles and bones and turned the joint in its socket. Barbara watched his face anxiously. His forehead was set in a frown and his eyes were keen, but the rest of his face was impassive.

"Sit up," he said. "Now, turn this way. That's right—now stand up."

Barbara obeyed him, trembling. In a minute more he would know.

"Stand on this side only. Now, can you walk?"

"No," answered Barbara, in a sad little whisper, "I can't." She reached for her faithful crutches, which leaned against the foot of the bed, but Doctor Allan snatched them away from her.

"No," he said, with his face illumined. "Never again."

Barbara gasped. "What do you mean?" she asked, terror and joy strangely mingling in her voice.

"Never again," Doctor Allan repeated. "You're never to have your crutches again."

Barbara gazed at him in astonishment. She stood there in her little white night-gown, which was not long enough to cover her bare pink feet, with a great golden braid hanging over either shoulder and far below her waist. Her blue eyes were very wide and dark.

"Am I going to walk?" she asked, in a queer little whisper.

"Certainly, except when you're riding, or sitting down, or asleep."

"I can't believe it," she answered, with quivering lips. Then she threw her arms around Doctor Allan's neck and kissed him with the sweet impulsiveness of a child.

"Thank you," he said, softly. "Now we'll walk."

He put his arm around her and Barbara took a few stumbling steps. Aunt Miriam opened the door and came in.

"Look," cried Barbara. "I'm walking."

"So I see," replied Miriam. "I heard the noise and came up to see what was the matter. I thought perhaps you wanted something." She retreated as swiftly as she had come. Allan stared after her and seemed to be on the verge of saying something very much to the point, but fortunately held his peace.

"You'll have to learn," he said, to Barbara, with a new gentleness in his tone. "Your balance is entirely different and these muscles and joints will have to learn to work. Keep up the exercise and the massage. You can have a cane, if you like, but no crutches. Is there someone who would help you for an hour or so every day?"

"Roger would," she said, "or Aunt Miriam."

"Better get Roger—he'll be stronger. And also more willing," he thought, but he did not say so. "Don't tire yourself, but walk a little every day, as you feel like it."

When he went, he took the crutches with him. "You might be tempted," he explained, "if they were here, and your father's cane is all you really need. Be a good girl and I'll come up again soon."

Eloise was watching from the piazza of the hotel, and, when he came in sight, she went up the road to meet him.

"Oh, Allan," she cried, breathlessly, as she saw the crutches. "Is she——?"

"She's all right. It's one of the most successful operations ever done in that line, even if I do say it as shouldn't."

"Of course," smiled Eloise, looking up at him fondly. "I know that."

They walked together down to the shore, followed by the deep and open interest of the rocking-chair brigade, marshalled twenty strong, on the hotel veranda. It was October and the children had all been taken back to school. The exquisite peace of the place was a thing to dream about and be spoken of only in reverent whispers.

The tide was going out. Allan hurled one of the crutches far out to sea. "They've worked faithfully and long," he said, "and they deserve a little jaunt to Europe. Here goes."

He was about to throw the other, but Eloise took it from him. "Let me," she suggested. "I'd love to throw a crutch over to Europe."

She tried it, with the customary feminine awkwardness. It did not go beyond the shallow water, and speared itself, sharp end downward, in the soft sand.

Allan laughed uproariously and Eloise coloured with shame. "Never mind," she said, with affected carelessness, "you couldn't have made it stick up in the sand like that, and I think it'll get to Europe just as soon as yours does, so there."

They sat down on the beach, sheltered from prying eyes by a sand dune, and directly opposite the crutch, which wobbled with every wave that struck it. "Think what it means," said Eloise, "and think what it might mean. It might be part of a shipwreck, or someone who needed it very much might have dropped it accidentally out of a boat, or the one who had it might have died, after long suffering."

"Or," continued Allan, "someone might have outgrown the need of it and thrown it away, as the tiny dwellers in the sea cast off their shells."

Eloise turned to him, with her deep eyes soft with luminous mist. "I haven't thanked you," she said, "for all you have done for my little girl." She lifted her sweet face to his.

"If you're going to thank me like that," said Allan, huskily, "I'll cut up the whole township and not even bother to save the pieces."

"You needn't," laughed Eloise, "but it was dear of you. You've never done anything half so lovely in all your life."

"It was you who did it, dear. I was but the humble instrument in your hands."

"Was Barbara glad?"

"I think so. She kissed me, too, but not like that."

"Did she, really? The sweet, shy little thing. Bless her heart."

"I infer, Miss Wynne," remarked Allan, in a judicial tone, "that you're not jealous."

"Jealous? I should say not. Anybody who can get you away from me," she added, as an afterthought, "can have you with my blessing and a few hints as to your management."

"Safe offer," he commented. "Are you really glad I've done what I have for Barbara?"

"Oh, my dear! So glad!"

"Then," suggested Allan, hopefully, "don't you think I should be thanked again?"

"I forgot to ask you about that dear old man," said Eloise, after a little. "Is he going to be all right, too?"

"Pretty much so, I think. We're very sure that he can see a little—he will not be totally blind. He will probably need glasses, but there will be plenty of time for that. His heart is the main trouble now. Any sudden excitement or shock might easily prove fatal."

"Of course he won't have that."

"We'll hope not, but life itself is more or less exciting and you can never tell what's going to break loose next. I have long since ceased to be surprised at anything, except the fact that you love me. I can't get used to that."

"You will, though," said Eloise, a little sadly. "You'll get so used to it that you won't even look up when I come into the room—you'll keep right on reading your paper."

"Impossible."

"That's what they all say, but it's so."

"Have all your previous husbands changed so quickly that you're afraid to try me?"

"I've seen it so much," sighed Eloise.

A great light broke in upon Allan. "Is that why?" he demanded, putting his arm around her. "No, you needn't try to get away, for you can't. Is that why I'm sentenced to all this infernal waiting?"

Eloise bit her lips and did not answer.

"Is it?" he asked, authoritatively.

"A little," she whispered. "This is so sweet, and sometimes I'm afraid——"

"Darling! Darling!" he said, drawing her closer. "You make me ashamed of my fellowmen when you say that. But do you want the year to stand still always at June?"

"No," she answered. "I'm willing to grow with Love, from all the promise of Spring into the harvest and even into Winter, as long as the sweetness is there. Don't you understand, Allan? Who would wish for June when Indian Summer fills all the silences with shimmering amethystine haze? And who would give up a keen, crisp Winter day, when the air sets the blood to tingling, for apple blossoms or even roses? It's not that—I only want the sweetness to stay."

"Please God, it shall," returned Allan, solemnly. He was profoundly moved.

"It shouldn't be so hard to keep it," went on Eloise, thoughtfully. "I've been thinking about it a good deal, lately. Life will give us back whatever we put into it. In a way, it's just like a bank. Put joy into the world and it will come back to you with compound interest, but you can't check out either money or happiness when you have made no deposits."

"Very true," he responded. "I never thought of it in just that way before."

"If you put joy in, and love, unselfishness, and a little laughter, and perfect faith—I think they'll all come back, some day."

A scarlet leaf from a maple danced along the beach, blown from some distant bough where the frost had set a flaming signal in the still September night. A yellow leaf from an elm swiftly caught it, and together they floated out to sea.

"Sweetheart," said Allan, "do you see? The leaves are beginning to fall and in a little while the trees will be bare. How long are you going to keep me waiting for wife and home?"

"I—don't—know."

"Dear, can't you trust me?"

"Yes, always," she answered, quickly. "You know that."

"Then when?"

"When all the colour is gone," she said, after a pause. "When the forest is desolate and the wind sighs through bare branches—when Winter chills our hearts—then I will come to you, and for a little while bring back the Spring."

"Truly, Sweetheart?"

"Truly."

"You'll never be sorry, dear." He took her into his arms and sealed her promise upon her lips.