"Do you think we'd better tell dad?"

They had gathered an armful of the roses and loitered along the winding paths, and were standing at last by the curb, waiting for the car.... She carried a few of the roses in her hand. She looked down at them thoughtfully. And suddenly the look of Miss Canfield, the nurse, flashed back to him.

"We don't want to upset him," she said slowly.

"I don't believe it will—upset him.... Do you know, I believe he wants it—I half suspect he's been planning it all along!"

"Do you? What makes you think so?" She had turned to him curiously.

He shook his head.

"Father's deep! I can't tell exactly why I think he knows.... But I never got very far ahead of him yet!"

"Very well—we will tell him."

"To-night?"

"If you like."

"I want him to see you like this— There's the car!" He hailed it.

So they came into Herman Medfield's room and stood before him with the armful of flowers. And he looked up at them—and smiled.

"God bless you, my children!" he said, after a critical glance at their smiling faces. "That is the proper thing to say, isn't it?" His eyes dwelt on them fondly.

Julian glanced at her. "I told you!" he said meaningly.

"What did you tell her?"

"That you knew all along, sir. I told her I never fooled you yet!"

"Well, you have tried hard enough.... Come here, please, Daughter."

So she went over and stood beside him and bent a little for him. And he kissed her, and looked at the delicate color that came and went in her face, and at the slender freshness of her figure as it straightened itself.

"I am glad my boy has done so well," he said quietly.... "I think I'll go to bed, when my nurse comes back. I am a little tired, I find."

"She will be here in a minute, sir—as soon as she changes her gown." She nodded to him and was gone.

And the boy and his father sat facing each other, with the light lessening in the room.

"How was the garden?" asked Medfield.

"Fine! I never saw it look so well!" The boy's voice was happy.

Medfield's eyes twinkled. "Perhaps you were not altogether fitted to judge." He was leaning back in his chair and looking at the light in his son's face.

"Perhaps not. I was never so happy in my life—I know that!" And his voice was serious now, with a deeper note in it than his father had heard.

And Herman Medfield began to speak of the business and of Dalton, and of his purpose to see Dalton.... They could use him, perhaps, in some minor capacity and see how he did.

"I have an idea that he may be the very man for your secretary—for your personal work, you know. I've always depended a good deal on Sully. You must have some one of your own.... Suppose you see this man Dalton yourself. See him to-morrow. Get the address from Aunt Jane—" He paused.... A look came to his face.

"You told Munson to send the roses, did you?"

"I told him. Yes. He'll send them to-night." The reply was absent. The young man's mind was reaching out to business and to the responsibilities that he saw his father would lay on him.

His shoulders straightened a little as he stood up. "I feel as if I had just come home," he said. "I've never felt at home before—anywhere!... It is curious to feel that way in a hospital, isn't it?"

His father's eyes were fixed on him dreamily. "I've been feeling 'at home,' too. And I have an idea a good many people feel that way—in the Berkeley House of Mercy." He said the last words slowly and softly, as if they pleased him.

"Why should they, I wonder?" said the boy.

"I wonder—" said Herman Medfield. "Perhaps I shall be able to tell you some day. I feel as if I were beginning to understand a good many things I never knew before.... If you will just give me your arm now, across the room, I think I'll get to bed."