“When it comes, it may come all at once,” the surgeon had said, “and overwhelm him. Better lead up to it—if we can—let him recall it—a bit here—a bit there—feel his way back—to the old place—to himself.”

“Where my child is,” said Philip Harris.

“Where your child is,” repeated the surgeon, “and that clue runs through the frailest, intangiblest matter that fingers ever touched.” He had looked down at his own thin, long, firm fingers as if doubting that they could have held that thread for a moment and left it intact.

Philip Harris moved restively a little, and came back. “There has not been a word for seven weeks,” he said, “not a breath—”

“They told you—?” said the surgeon.

“That they would wait three months! Yes!” Philip Harris puffed fiercely. “It is hell!” he said.

“The boy is better,” said the surgeon. “You have only to wait a little longer now.”

And he was whirred away in the great car—to the children that needed him, and Idlewood had settled, in its charmed stillness, into the night.... No one would have guessed that it was a state of siege there—the world passed in and out of the big gates—automobiles and drays and foot passengers, winding their way up to the low, rambling house that wandered through the flowers toward the river and the wood. Windows were open everywhere and voices sounded through the garden.

In one of the rooms, darkened to the light, the mistress of the house lay with closed eyes. She could not bear the light, or the sound of voices—listening always to hear a child’s laugh among them—the gay little laugh that ran toward her in every room, and called.

She had shut herself away, and only Philip Harris came to the closed room, bringing her news of the search, or sitting quietly by her in the darkness. But for weeks there had been no news, no clue. The search was baffled.... They had not told her of the Greek boy and the muttered words.

“Better not trouble her,” the physician had urged. “She cannot bear disappointment—if nothing comes of it.”

And no word filtered through to the dim room... and all the clues withdrew in darkness.

Out in the garden Alcibiades and Miss Stone worked among the flowers. It was part of the cure—that they should work there among growing things every day—close to the earth—and his voice sounded happily as they worked.

The woman in the closed room turned her head uneasily. She listened a moment. Then she called.... Marie stood in the doorway.

“Who is there—Marie—in the garden?”

The maid stole to the window and peered through the shutters. She came back to the bed. “It’s a boy,” she said, “a Greek boy—and Miss Stone.”

“Why is he here?” asked the woman, querulously.

The maid paused—discreet. She knew—everyone except the woman lying with closed eyes—knew why the boy was here.... She bent and adjusted the pillow, smoothing it. “He is someone Mr. Harris sent down,” she said, “someone to get well.”

There was no reply. The woman lay quiet. “I want to get up, Marie,” she said at last. “It is stifling here.”

“Yes, Madame.”

The windows were opened a little—the light came in slowly, and Mrs. Philip Harris stepped at last into the loggia that led from her windows—out toward the garden. Grapevines climbed the posts and tendril shadows were on the ground beneath. They rested on the frail figure moving under them toward the light.

Marie hovered near her, with pillows and a sunshade, and her face full of care.

But the woman waved her back. “I do not need you, Marie. Here—I will take the sunshade. Now, go back.” She moved on slowly. The voices had died away. In the distance, she saw Miss Stone, moving toward the wood, alone. She paused for a moment, watching the grey figure—a little cloud passed across her face. She had not seen Miss Stone—since... she did not blame her—but she could not see her. She moved on slowly, the light from the sunshade touching the lines in her face and flushing them softly. Suddenly she stopped. On a low couch, a little distance away, a boy lay asleep. She came up to him softly and stood watching him. There was something in the flushed face, in the childish, drooping lip and tossed hair—that reminded her. Slowly she sank down beside him, hardly breathing.

All about them, the summer went on—the quiet, gentle warmth and the fresh scent of blossoms. The boy murmured a little, and threw out an arm, and slept on. The woman’s eyes watched the sleeping face. Something mysterious was in it—a look of other worlds. It was the look of Betty—at night... when she lay asleep. It certainly was from some other world. The woman bent forward a little. The dark eyes opened—and looked at her—and smiled. The boy sat up. “I sleep,” he said.

He rubbed his eyes, boyishly, smiling still to her. “I very sleepy,” he said. “I work.” He rubbed his arms. “I work hard.”

She questioned him and moved a little away, and he came and sat at her feet, telling her of himself—with quiet slowness. As she questioned him he told her all that he knew. And they chatted in the sunshine—subtly drawn to each other—happy in something they could not have said.

The boy had grown refined by his illness—the sturdy hands that had guided the push-cart had lost their roughened look and seemed the shape of some old statue; and the head, poised on the round throat, was as if some old museum had come to life and laughed in the sun. If Mrs. Philip Harris had seen Alcibiades shoving his cart before him, along the cobbled street, his head thrown back, his voice calling “Ban-an-nas!” as he went, she would not have given him a thought. But here, in her garden, in the white clothes that he wore, and sitting at her feet, it was as if the gates to another world had opened to them—and both looked back together at his own life. The mystery in the boy’s eyes stirred her—and the sound of his voice... there was something in it... beauty, wonder—mystery. She drew a quick breath. “I think I will go in,” she said, and the boy lifted himself to help her—and only left her, under the loggia, with a quick, grateful flash of the dark smile.

Mrs. Philip Harris slept that night—the chloral, on the little table beside her, untouched. And the next day found her in the garden.

All the household watched—with quickened hope. The mistress of the house had taken up her life, and the old quick orders ran through the house. And no one spoke of the child. It was as if she were asleep—in some distant room—veiled in her cloud. But the house came back to its life. Only, the social groups that had filled it every summer were not there. But there was the Greek boy, in the garden, and Miss Stone, and Philip Harris whirring out at night and sitting on the terrace in the dusk, the light of his cigar glimmering a little, as he watched the Greek boy flung on the ground at his feet, his eyes playing with the stars. He knew them all by name under the skies of Greece. Achilles had taught them to him; and he counted them, like a flock, as he lay on the terrace—rolling out the great Greek names while they girdled the sky above him in a kind of homely chant.

When the boy had gone to bed Philip Harris remained smoking thoughtfully and looking still at the stars. He had had a long talk with the surgeon to-day and he had given his consent. The boy was well, he admitted—as well as he was likely to be—perhaps. Give him three more days—then, if nothing happened, they might question him.

Philip Harris threw away his cigar—and its glimmering light went out in the grass. Overhead the great stars still circled in space, travelling on toward the new day.