Reginald Doan was out of danger. Infant tyranny and convalescence had both begun. Over clean-swept plains the blizzard of three days' duration moaned its last sharp protest. The sun blinked out through yellow grit on a city lashed white and ghostly. Isabel ran to her boy with the first peep of day. The little fellow still slept and she returned to a warm bed. The clock on her dressing table struck eight before she was summoned to the sickroom. The nurse opened the door, smiling. "He has been wishing for you. A night has done even more than the doctor expected."

"Has he been quiet?"

"Most of the time; but just before you came he was a wee bit naughty. Now he's going to be the best boy in the world."

Reginald stretched out his hands. "I wanted mother dear," he sweetly confessed. "I cried just one minute."

"But you must not cry at all," Isabel told him. "If you cry you may not get well enough to start for California."

The topic of travel was absorbing and soothing. Reginald lay quiet while his mother romanced of trains and engines and long dark tunnels. Genius for operating railroads had brought the boy's father to the top with several millions; the son would doubtless make good in the same way.

To-day Reginald clasped a toy locomotive in his baby hand. Interest in play was returning. "My ningin's all weddy for California," he exulted. "To-morrow I'm doing to div you a ticket."

"How kind," said his mother.

"And I'm doing to div Fadder Barry a ticket, too." Isabel made no reply. "I want Fadder Barry to come back—I want him so bad!" the boy petitioned. His accent seemed unduly broadened for the occasion. Long a fell like a wail.

"Don't be naughty," Isabel pleaded. "Father Barry cannot possibly come." Her voice broke, but she went on. "Listen and I will tell you why you must not ask for him. He has gone home—to his mother dear. Last night Father Barry's mother dear wished him to come to her, but he did not understand—he stayed with Reggie. Now Reggie is getting well." She rested a hand against her cheek to hide falling tears. "But I want Fadder Barry so bad!" the child protested. His baby face took on the resolute charm his mother dreaded. "I do want Fadder Barry!" he persisted. Then with autocratic movement he called the nurse. His countenance shone with expedient thought. "Teletone," he whispered, "teletone to Fadder Barry. Tell him to come back and bring his trunk." The attendant left the room, while the boy lay still and confident. His purple eyes shone so darkly in their wonderful sockets that the mother doubted the wisdom of an evident ruse. She waited anxiously until the nurse reappeared.

"Did you teletone?" the boy asked.

"I tried to," the woman answered, "but you see the wind has broken the wires. The poor telephone has a sore throat—just like Reggie; it cannot speak."

"Must the doctor make it well?" The child's sympathies were thoroughly aroused. For the first time the new nurse achieved a victory; and the illness of the telephone grew more alarming each moment.

The boy's mother went down to her breakfast, both hungry and happy. Reginald was in judicious hands. On a folded napkin was a letter, stamped for quick delivery. Isabel tore open the envelope and saw her returned check with sharpened senses. She began to read. When at last she understood, she was crying. "How unjust! How unjust to his ambition; to his struggle for accomplishment!" she choked. She tossed the check aside and re-read Father Barry's letter. His unhappiness was her own. Her one thought was to help him; to brace him against disappointment. This brilliant man—this friend—must not be ruined. There was some mistake. Those above him, the people who adored their priest, would see that he had fair treatment. Submission to a creed had not been part of Isabel's bringing up. Born and reared in an unorthodox atmosphere she had never been able to quite understand the power of Philip's church. It was, in fact, this very attitude which had first made trouble between them. The two had parted at Rome, both miserably conscious of their sacrifice, yet each blaming the other. Afterward, when the man became a priest, successful, eloquent, exerting splendid influence; appealing to people of all classes with his project for a cathedral that should mark an architectural epoch for the Middle West, the woman whom he had wished to marry—now residing in the same city—rejoiced that he had found a larger scope in life. When she suddenly became a widow she held it a pleasure to follow up the desirable friendship which was now strictly outside of sentiment. Father Barry's vestments covered the past. The two met without embarrassment. The priest was full of his cathedral; the young mother absorbed in her little son. Then when Mrs. Grace—a Catholic—confirmed at mature age and consequently over-zealous, arrived to live with her niece, Father Barry came more frequently to the stone house behind the elms. Soon he was the acknowledged friend of the family. Realizing that Mrs. Doan's interest in his new church was almost pagan, he still drew strange inspiration from her clear perception and balanced criticism. Without fear both man and woman accepted the cathedral as a bond which might prove to be more suitable than love. Isabel's actions were never confused with a flirtation. Thus far she had escaped censorious tongues. For Mrs. Doan was a personage in the western city and universally admired. But if she had escaped criticism, her aunt stood for a full share of it. The niece often despaired of her chaperone, regretting that she had selected one devoid of the finer feelings. However, she tried to make the best of an uncongenial arrangement which had resulted from blood relationship. And Mrs. Grace—a widow twice, and vaguely considering a third venture—was not altogether responsible for a light head and superficial education. She was generally adjudged amusing.

To-day Isabel was keenly sensible of great trouble. The priest's impending downfall, his heroic part in Reginald's recovery, the sudden death of his mother, were all sufficient reasons for her own straightforward determination. She would go to him—go to him at once—with no false shrinking. Perhaps even yet she might save him—induce him to appeal beyond his bishop. The weakness evinced in his letter, his wish to give up, to drift into obscurity—filled her with courage which she did not really understand. Yes, she must see him! talk with him, under his dead mother's roof—persuade him to hope; then she remembered that she was a prisoner in her own home, forbidden to leave it.