Mrs. Paragon arrived late in the afternoon. Peter could not be made to perceive her, and a physician was sent for from London.

Mrs. Paragon sat with Peter through the night, stifling her fear. His talk perplexed her in the extreme. The empty house where he wandered became as real to her as the room in which she sat. He had gone there to find Miranda, and this it was that so grieved and puzzled his mother. Peter had never once spoken of Miranda since the night he had arranged to go to London for the first time. She did not think he had of late thought of Miranda. Had he been eating his heart in secret?

The farmer's granddaughter waited upon Mrs. Paragon through the night. They talked only of his condition, but Mrs. Paragon noted her extreme interest in the patient.

Towards the morning they were together by the bedside. Peter had begun again to talk, and Mrs. Paragon suddenly saw the girl shrink away. Then almost immediately she turned and left the room.

Mrs. Paragon bent to listen. Peter was treading again the weary round of his thoughts of the preceding day. After a few moments his mother's face became very thoughtful.

When in the morning the girl brought her some breakfast, she said to her quietly:

"How long have you been here?"

"Two days." Already the girl knew she was detected.

"What has happened to my son?"

"How am I to know better than the doctor?" she countered.

"You know very well indeed."

"He is nothing to me."

Mrs. Paragon inexorably faced her:

"How could you be so wicked?" she said in a low voice.

"What do you mean?"

"You are not surprised when I talk to you of my son, and you have been here only two days."

Peter's mother stood like marble. The girl saw she was open to be read. Her pride was broken.

"Do not send me away," she pleaded. "I must know whether he lives or dies."

"What right have you to know?"

The girl was silent, and Mrs. Paragon shivered. She hardly dared be made sure.

"Has my son belonged to you?"

"No."

The girl hated to confess it, but quickly used it as a plea:

"Now will you let me stay?" she entreated.

Mrs. Paragon turned coldly away.

"Please go," she commanded.

The girl was struck into a hopeless humility.

"I will not trouble him again," she pleaded.

"I myself shall see to that."

Mrs. Paragon spoke calmly, and did not stir. Peter lay on the bed safely in her shadow.

The girl looked her farewell at him and passed out.

The specialist from London arrived before noon. He at once took a cheerful view. After listening to the local doctor's account of Peter's night, and examining the patient himself, he relieved Mrs. Paragon of her fears.

"What's the boy been doing?" he asked, after deciding there was nothing to keep him in Worcestershire. "This might well be mistaken for a touch of the sun," he said, smiling at the local man, "but it's not quite so simple. It looks as if he'd been trying to put himself straight with things, and not quite succeeded. He's suffering from acute mental excitement, but he's a healthy youngster and his temperature's falling. He won't talk any more."

"There's a thing that rather puzzles me, doctor," Mrs. Paragon hesitated.

"Well?"

"My son has been troubled, greatly troubled, by someone here, but most of his talk was about someone else."

"I don't quite understand."

"He has talked of a girl I thought he had forgotten. At least I did not think she had lately been in his mind."

"Very likely not, Mrs. Paragon. The mind's not at all a simple thing. Usually in cases like this the memories which come uppermost are things forgotten. We call it the subconscious self. This girl your son has been talking about—probably he does not know that he remembers her. Perhaps—of course I don't know all the circumstances—he has not thought of her for years. But evidently she is a vital memory. She is sleeping in his mind. Pardon my running on like this," the doctor concluded, smiling, "but you look interested."

"I think I understand."

"Is that all you want to know?"

"You are sure he is quite safe?"

"There's nothing to be anxious about. He only wants well nursing."

The doctor paused and looked keenly at Mrs. Paragon.

"You are very proud of him," he suggested.

"Prouder to-day than ever."

"He looks quite a splendid fellow. Send for me if anything goes seriously wrong."

Mrs. Paragon now sat happily with Peter, for he grew continually calmer, and she felt he was safe. A proud content sank deep into her heart as she put together the story of these last days. She pondered also the doctor's words, and wondered whether Peter had consciously called Miranda to his help. Or did she lurk as a secret angel under the surface of his life?

Forty-eight hours later Peter woke from a long sleep, and found his mother beside him. He did not stir, but just accepted her. He felt too weak to talk, and, taking some food, went immediately to sleep again.

Next time he woke Mrs. Paragon was not in the room, the farmer's wife having taken charge for a moment. Peter raised himself on one elbow, wondering to feel himself so weak.

"How long have I been like this?" he asked. "I feel as if I'd been in bed for a year."

"You're all right now, lad. You've been too much in the hot sun and got a touch o' fever."

Peter looked round the room.

"Didn't I see my mother here?" he asked.

"You did, to be sure. We sent for her when you were took with the heat. It was Bess that found you, lying in the road."

Peter remembered now how and where he had fallen.

Mrs. Paragon came in at that moment, and the farmer's wife greeted her.

"The lad's awake, and talking like a Christian."

Mrs. Paragon came and kissed him, the farmer's wife softly leaving them together. Peter looked tranquilly at his mother.

"I'm afraid I've frightened you," he said at last.

"Only for a little while," she reassured him.

"What time is it? I mean, how long have you been here?"

"Only three days."

"It feels like a hundred years," said Peter. "As if it had all happened to someone else. There was a girl here, mother. Where is she now?"

"She has gone away."

Peter sank peacefully back. After a while his mother said to him:

"Have you been grieving for anyone, Peter, during these last years?"

"Grieving?" Peter was making diagrams of the cracks and stains on the ceiling.

"You've been talking, Peter."

"What have I been talking about?" he idly inquired.

"You've been talking about your troubles."

"I haven't any troubles." Peter turned from the ceiling to his mother's face, feeling how pleasant it was to see her there.

"You've been talking about someone who troubled you," Mrs. Paragon persisted.

"But, mother," he objected, "you tell me she has gone away."

"There is no one else?"

"No one at all."

Peter lived deliciously for a week with his mother in the shaded room. He never seemed to have felt so happy. His mind was content to be idle. When he was tired of collecting into groups the roses on the wall-paper, or watching for hours the blue square of the window across which once or twice in a day a bird would fly, he would ask his mother to read to him old tales of Ainsworth and Marryat. He affected an imperious self-indulgence.

It was decided at last that Peter was strong enough for the journey home. Cordial thanks and farewells were exchanged with the farmer and his wife. Peter even left a kind message for the farmer's granddaughter, who had fled for fear of infection. He no longer thought of her as one who could trouble him.