Achilles sprang forward. “She’s all right, Mr. Harris—all right!” His hand dropped to the trembling shoulder and rested there, as his quiet voice repeated the words. He bent forward and lifted the child in his arms and moved away with her. But before he had traversed the long hall, the little head had fallen forward on his shoulder and the child slept. Behind the velvet curtain, the voice of Conner wrestled faintly with the telephone and all about them great lights glowed on the walls; they lighted the great staircase that swept mistily up, and the figure of Achilles mounting slowly in the stately, lonely house, the child in his arms. His hand steadied the sleeping head with careful touch, against his shoulder.... They were not jolting now, in heavy cars, through the traffic streets—or wandering on the plain.... Little Betty Harris had come home.

Above them at the top of the long stairs, a grey figure appeared, and paused a moment and looked down. Then Miss Stone descended swiftly, her hands outstretched—they did not touch the sleeping child, but hovered above her with a look—half pain—half joy.

Achilles smiled to her—“She come home,” he whispered.

She turned with quick breath and they mounted the stairs—the child still asleep... through the long corridor—to the princess’s room beyond—with its soft lights—and great, silken hangings and canopied bed, open for the night—waiting for Betty Harris.

Achilles bent and laid her down, with lightest touch, and straightened himself. “We let her sleep,” he said gently. “She—very tired.”

They stood looking down—at the brown face and the little, tired lip and sleeping lids.... Their eyes met, and they smiled.... They knew—these two, out of all the world—they knew what it meant—that the child was safe.

And out in the glowing dawn, the great car thundered home, and Betty Harris’s mother looked out with swift eyes.

“See, Phil—the sun is up!” She reached out her hand.

“Sit still, Louie—don’t tremble so—” he said gently. “She is safe now—They have brought her home. She’s there, you know, asleep.” He spoke slowly—as if to a child.... He was gathering up the morning in his heart—this big, harsh, master of men—his little girl was safe—and a common Greek—a man out of the streets—peddling bananas and calling up and down—had made his life worth living. His big, tense mind gripped the fact—and held it. Something seemed speaking to him—out of the east, over there, past the rushing car.... A common Greek.... He had flung his wealth and hammered hard—but somehow this man had loved her—his little girl!

“Phil—?” she said softly.

“Yes, dear?”

“Are we almost home?”

He looked out. “Half an hour yet—sit still, Louie—!” He held her hand close. “Sit still!” he said—and the miles slipped past.

“She is there—Phil! Yes? They wouldn’t lie to me. All these weeks!” she said softly. “I don’t think I could bear it much longer, Phil!” The tears were on her cheeks, raining down and he put his rough face against her, adrift in a new world.

And over the great lake the sun burst out, on a flashing car—and the door flung wide to Betty Harris’s mother, flying with swift, sure foot up the great, stone steps.... “This way, ma’am—she’s in here—her own room—this way, ma’am.”

She was kneeling by the great canopied bed, her head bent very low. The brown face trembled a breath... the child put up a hand in her dream, “Mother-dear!” she said—and dreamed on....

THE END