Isabel was parted from Philip. She had watched him sail from Port Los Angeles, then quickly entered a waiting touring car. Dr. Judkin's fears were groundless, as the homeward trip had proved to be pleasant, almost like a vent for the wife's tense feeling. It was clear that she had staked everything on her husband's ocean voyage. Despite a hard separation she was hopeful. She seemed determined to accept present conditions, meanwhile living for the fulfillment of happier months to come.

And with her usual force, she at once began to engage in active matters. Dr. Judkin's injunction to rest was forgotten. She seemed to be suddenly strong. The doctor's rash promise intoxicated her; Philip, just gone, was dearer than ever. She said over and over that he would come back well, able to respond to fresh opportunities. He should find them waiting, and friends, too. It was yet early in the day. Isabel dressed carefully, ordered her carriage and went forth to pay visits. New acquaintances must see that she was not a crushed wife. She wanted to tell every one that her husband was getting better. The splendid pride of her young nature rose up for conquest. Pity was not for Isabel. And after a pleasant outing she returned to find the house, withal, more cheerful than for weeks back. Nurses had gone, and Reginald's unrestrained shouts echoed at will.

"Mother darling! Mother darling!" the little fellow had cried. "How pretty your dress is! Have you been getting married this afternoon? Please read me a story like you used to," he demanded.

"I will tell you one," Isabel said gently. Then she gathered her son in her arms. His head rested against her breast, as she began to tell him about far-away Tahiti. She colored a simple narrative until it glowed with personal interest. The boy listened happily. A little brown hand held her own fairer one, turning her jeweled rings, while she pictured "Father Philip's" boat, the island in the middle of the ocean, native boys and girls selling garlands, the possibility of whales, of flying fish, and everything else that naturally belonged to the story. With Philip as her hero, Isabel felt able to spin indefinite situations for sea or land. Spring twilight seemed to cast its spell over mother and son. The English nurse came twice before the tale of Tahiti was finished. Reginald, unmindful of a supper of bread and milk, paid no heed to an invitation; and for some new reason Isabel encouraged her boy to disregard hitherto accepted authority.

"When I have eated a lot and get all weddy for bed I'll come back," the little fellow at last promised. "I want some more 'lapping' and another story about the big whales. Then I'll say my French prayer." He hopped away on one leg. Isabel heard his voice piping triumph. "I'm coming back! I'm coming back! Goody! goody! She said I might." Then the door closed.

Isabel sat on, thinking of past silent weeks, asking herself if her boy had not been harshly treated. Dear little chap! he might now make noise. Later the child kept his word, rushing down in night clothes for his good night "lapping," for one more story. After all, time was passing. And to-morrow Philip would be in San Francisco, then by noon of the next day he would sail for Tahiti. Isabel decided once more to keep her mind employed during her husband's absence. Madame pined to play cribbage, and evening was well spent before the two friends bade each other good night. The old French woman had won several rubbers and retired in high spirits, while the younger one went softly to her boy's bedside.

As usual, Reginald lay tucked in his white nest on an upper balcony. A half moon shut out by falling canvas shot beams across a screen of interlacing vines. The sleeping boy was bathed in radiance. His arms rested outside the covers and one little brown hand still held a toy locomotive. Isabel bent and touched her son's soft brow. His relaxed beauty thrilled her. As often before, the boy reminded her of Bellini's sleeping child—the one lying across the Madonna's lap—in the Academy at Venice. She had boldly rebelled that the wonderful picture was unstarred in the great master's collection of holy children. To-night her mother-heart still deplored an arbitrary test of art. She drew aside a curtain, gazing upward to the sky. A star too brilliant for the moon's effacement looked down, while seemingly no erring human judgment could check a heavenly tribute to her sleeping boy. She went from his side strangely happy. But she did not enter Philip's closed room. Rather, she desired to shut out those weeks of torture and anxiety. She thought of Dr. Judkin's rash promise, of the time when her husband would come back well; of his book, which she had fortunately saved from the flames. And it was now time to hear definitely from the manuscript; almost four weeks since it had gone upon its journey eastward. The publisher had written at once, announcing his interest in Philip's work, yet of course the matter could not be decided too hastily. Isabel had waited patiently. Now that she was alone it seemed harder to endure a new kind of suspense. What if the manuscript came back? No! no! that must not happen, not again. She dared not dwell on a crushing possibility and went to bed, driving the thought from her. After all, she would accept Dr. Judkin's advice and take to the saddle. She would ride to-morrow—throughout the bright spring morning. Miss Lewis, who had fortunately returned to town, should use one of the horses. Then perhaps Gay could stop for a short visit—stay until after Philip's boat had sailed. She buried her face in the pillow.