Stephen's forty-second birthday fell upon the day on which he made the final arrangements for Hilda's residence at the King Sanatorium. He had not seen her because she was obsessed by fear of him, and he sat in the office until the superintendent returned with Mayne and Dr. Good. Even Dr. King, sanguine as his temperament was, was in this case not hopeful.

"The family history is not encouraging," he explained, with deepest commiseration for Stephen, deprived before middle life of an attractive companion. "But you must not despair."

"Is her physical condition also likely to grow worse?" asked Mayne. He did not mop his brow upon this occasion; he felt, not without self-reproach, a deep relief.

"We can't prophesy about that. We have had patients of her type who have lived for a long time and others who lived only a few months."

"What do you mean by a long time?"

"Well, for some years," said Dr. King in his kind voice.

Stephen rose and took his hat from the table. He was depressed and intensely nervous. Mayne's large body and the superintendent's sympathy and Dr. Good's bright, observant eyes irritated him.

"She's to have, of course, every possible attention. You have Professor Mayne's address and mine."

"We make weekly reports unless we are directed otherwise. In case of an unusual development we should telephone you. You understand, Dr. Lanfair, that Mrs. Lanfair's attitude toward you is a part of her malady?"

"I understand perfectly."

At the door Mayne and Stephen bade one another good-bye. Both remembered a thin, eager boy with a black band on his gray sleeve and a short, slender, black-eyed girl.

"It's hard on you, Stephen."

"And on you."

Stephen stepped into his car beside Fickes. For a while he stared at the floor, his arms folded, his mind a blank. Gradually the expression of his eyes changed, the pupils darkened. There waited for him at the hospital a woman who had hastened a slow fire with coal oil; the problem was even more difficult than that of Mrs. Fetzer, but he had determined to solve it. He planned a course of treatment. He would offer to take the next twenty burned cases at the hospital.

Presently he lifted his head and glanced about at a landscape which recalled his visit to Edward Levis—was it two years or ten since he had made his sudden descent upon him? Here was a friend! He believed that he could even tell Levis his troubles; it would do him good. He sat a little more erectly.

Then suddenly an electric thrill passed through his body. He was free! Tears pressed upon his eyelids—he turned his head so that Fickes might not see them—tears of profound relief. What anxiety and torment had been his! And it was past, decently past, and he had played the part of a man throughout. Moreover, no public shame, no irremediable disaster had terminated the nightmare. Hilda's valedictory was heard by only a few persons,—her uncle, Dr. Good, Fetzer, upon whose devotion he could stake all that he had in the world, and this unknown but apparently trustworthy creature through whose quickness a serious calamity had been avoided. He would tell Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane where Hilda was, and he would inform a few of the older friends whom she had inherited from her parents, and to whom she had paid an indifferent attention; then all would be concluded except the pitiful end of her poor life.

They had begun to descend the hill toward the Kloster, and Stephen looked at it curiously. When he visited Levis they would come over here and prowl about. Ah, there were a thousand things to do in the world, a thousand places to visit! Hilda had liked only main-traveled roads on which there were theaters and shops; they had never seen the interesting countries, the Far North, the tropics, Ceylon, Carcassone, the church of Brou, the Far East. He was able to smile at the old white-bearded man pottering about among the graves in the cemetery of the Kloster, as though he smiled at Time himself.

Opening the door of his office he found Miss Knowlton and Miss MacVane and went at once to work. There were a dozen patients waiting, and as many to be informed that he had returned. Miss Knowlton smiled at Miss MacVane when he began to prescribe for a patient whose treatment would be extended. He meant evidently to stay. But at other times he had meant to stay and had been persuaded to go away. When he said that Hilda was in the King Sanatorium they expressed their regret and went on with their work. They were conscientious souls and both felt a vague self-reproach.

When he had had his dinner he returned to his office. But he was tired; he would go for a walk. The night was clear, the air soft, and the river reflected the stars. He ran up to his room, where he found his housemaid engaged in laying back the covers of his bed. Ellen expected to go out and she had coiled her hair on top of her head in the transforming fashion condemned by Fetzer. She looked up and answered Stephen's "Good-evening" with a bright flush. Her heart beat quickly; it seemed to her now that it was never quiet. Stephen looked at her, confused, as though she were a stranger.

"It's a warm night, isn't it?"

"Yes," said Ellen, "but there'll be a breeze from the river."

"Are you fond of the river?"

"It gets to seem like a friend."

She smiled and moved toward the door. She had learned her lesson well; while she was a housemaid she would do as housemaids did—or should. She carried with her now a pleasant anticipation—she had changed her mind, some day she would tell Stephen who she was. But the time was not yet ripe. In the doorway she paused.

"Would you like me to move your bed to the bay-window each evening?"

Stephen was watching her free walk and her straight shoulders and wishing for some young creature to walk and talk with, some boy or girl like this.

"Did you speak to me?"

She repeated her question.

"O, thank you; I'll do that when I want to sleep there."

He decided not to walk; he would call on Dr. and Mrs. Salter and tell them about Hilda and ask them to tell certain other persons. It was a duty which seemed suddenly pressing.

He continued through the spring to work all day and a part of the night. He had never felt more alert; after a while he attributed his alertness to freedom from anxiety. What might a man not accomplish under circumstances which were entirely favorable—with health and fortune and domestic happiness?

It was with a sense of amusement that he found himself thinking presently of the one creature in his house who was young. It was pleasant to meet her once or twice a day and see the color deepen in her cheeks. He did not realize that it was meeting him which made her flush; it was simply that she had color which came and went easily. She was always quiet, always unobtrusive, always low-voiced. She smiled, but he had never heard her laugh.

He began to be curious about her, but he asked no questions either of her or of Fetzer. He would learn, of course, that she was merely a dull country girl and the impression of intelligence given by a single instance of quick-wittedness would vanish when she began to talk. She seemed to have within her some spring of interest or satisfaction, but he could not guess what it was. But dull or not, she was very lovely.

Then one warm, bright night when sleeping seemed a waste of time, Stephen found his narrow bed pushed to the window. He smiled; then suddenly he grew pale and turned on his heel and began to walk up and down the room. He folded his arms across his breast as though to hold by force some leaping savage, unrighteous, thing. He was not so much appalled as astounded. He went down to his office and brought up Farmingham on the Muscles of the Eye. At three o'clock he laid the book down and turned out his light, smiling a little weakly at himself. He refused to connect this absurdity with any individual; he believed it was an effect of too close application to work.

In a third-story room neatly arranged was the overflow of his professional library, pamphlets and magazines which waited binding, and books which had passed their usefulness, but which he might still need for reference. On the day after his vigil, going thither to find a pamphlet, he passed Fetzer's room and came to the door of Ellen's room. There he saw Ellen's little bed, her table with its books, its neatly sharpened pencils, its vase of flowers. All was sweet and virginal and childlike. He remembered that Fetzer had said long ago that the girl studied; he was curious about her studies. He stepped in and lifted the three books from the table. The first was a geometry, the second a general history, the third a copy of "Vanity Fair" from his library. In the geometry lay several sheets of paper covered with neat triangles and circles.

He found his pamphlet and went downstairs slowly. He was indebted to this girl who had helped him in a hard place. Did she wish more education?—if so there was no reason why her ambition should not be gratified. He was positive now that she was superior to her present situation. His savings were large and his income constantly increasing; it would be pleasant to help an ambitious student. A comfortable philanthropic glow quite banished his lingering disgust at last night's unpleasant experience.

After dinner he rang for Ellen, who came to his study a little frightened. She had changed her black uniform for a white dress. Stephen knew her straight shoulders and her free step, but he had never realized quite the depth of her gaze when her eyes were squarely encountered.

"Sit down, Ellen."

Ellen took the chair indicated to her. The light shone full on her dark hair and her round chin and white neck. Something stirred again in Stephen's breast.

"Fetzer tells me you're a student."

"Yes," answered Ellen, blushing.

"What do you study?"

"Geometry and history and English and other subjects."

"Why do you study?"

"I'm going to college."

"Oh, you are! When?"

"In September—that is, if I can make certain arrangements."

"What arrangements?"

"If I can pass the examinations. Miss MacVane thinks I can enter the Sophomore class. I'm arranging to borrow a little from a fund for students who need help."

"Why are you going to college?" Stephen leaned forward in his chair. His interest in her quickened. To borrow from a fund, was she?

"I mean to be a doctor."

"A doctor!" Had Fetzer announced her intention of being an aviator, he would have been no more surprised. "Why a doctor?"

"My father meant to educate me to be a doctor as he was." Then Ellen leaned forward, her lips trembling. She could keep her secret no longer—her heart seemed to burst with it. "Don't you remember me at all?"

Stephen looked curiously into Ellen's face and thought of the hundreds of patients in hospital and office. But even though there had been hundreds he seldom forgot the eyes which he treated—certainly not such eyes as these!

"Were you ever a patient of mine?"

Ellen shook her head; he could see her lips tremble. She seemed to be unhappy because he did not remember her! What an extraordinary experience! He had never been more puzzled or more charmed.

"Ellen Lewis is your name, Fetzer said. Is that right?"

"Ellen Levis is my name. They call me Lewis when they can't say 'v.'"

Still he stared without comprehension. Ellen grew pale with distress. Was she the victim of an hallucination?

"Don't you remember now?"

"No." It was Stephen's turn to believe that some form of aphasia had blotted out a part of his past.

"You came to see my father the day he died, you and Mrs. Lanfair."

Stephen frowned; his lifted hand covered his lips; then he leaned backward into the shadow. He was shocked beyond expression.

"Not Edward Levis!" said he, at last quietly.

"Yes."

"You were the young girl who begged us to stay to supper? You were studying with your father and you had a little table by the window?"

"Yes."

"Your father isn't dead!"

"He died that evening of heart trouble."

"How do you happen to be here?" asked Stephen sharply.

"I wanted to earn my living."

"Had your father no property?"

"I'm not of age."

"Why didn't you go on to college?"

"My grandfather and my brother thought I had enough education, and the farm was run down and my brother thought the income should go to improving it."

"Did they drive you away?"

"Oh, no! I came of my free will. They thought what they did was right. It happened to suit Matthew's plans for the farm, but he would have done right even if it had inconvenienced him."

"Did you expect to earn enough to go to college in a housemaid's position?"

"No; but I earned something and I had a little. Then Miss MacVane encouraged me—she had nothing, and yet she went to college."

"How did you happen to come here? Did Fetzer advertise?"

"No," answered Ellen with difficulty. "My father and I passed here and he stopped and looked at your house. I came to look at it one day because it reminded me of him. I was very forlorn. I think I was crying and I crossed the street in front of an automobile and was struck and Mrs. Fetzer befriended me."

"When did you recognize me?"

"When you came home."

"Why didn't you speak?"

"I couldn't."

"Did your father ever speak of me?"

"He wanted to make you executor of his will, but he couldn't complete it."

"Why didn't you find me?"

"I couldn't remember your name."

Stephen leaned his chin upon his hand. He looked through Ellen at some object far beyond her. He saw a bare room in a dingy old house in Philadelphia, an old desk and his own head bent in remorse above it. He had been grateful, Heaven bore witness, for a while.

"So you have everything arranged?" he said at last.

"Yes."

"And you are happy?"

"Yes. I've quite forgotten how unhappy and forlorn I used to be."

"The prospect of studying delights you?"

"Yes." Ellen lifted her eyes to his. "I used to think that learning was everything, but I've found that it isn't. One needs satisfaction for the mind, but one needs satisfaction for the heart also. It seemed to me that I had nobody."

Stephen rose and went to the side of his desk and stood leaning upon it and looking down at Ellen.

"And you feel that now you have somebody?"

"Yes. I'm older and more sensible and I realize that Grandfather and Matthew are fond of me even though we think differently."

"And is this understanding of their affection sufficient food for the heart?"

Ellen's look was still straightforward, but her cheeks crimsoned. Fetzer would wonder where she stayed. She rose and stood before him.

"No."

"What else have you?"

"I have you," answered Ellen simply.

At that Stephen put his hand under Ellen's soft chin and lifted her head. She smiled at him, and when Ellen smiled she invited unconsciously more of a caress than a mere touch of hand. But he did not move and she turned her cheek a little against the warm palm, then went away. Her cup of happiness was full. Her father's desires had hitherto been her law; she had now another law.

For a moment Stephen stood motionless beside his desk, then he began to walk up and down. What an extraordinary chance! He began to lay plans. She must come down out of her attic; she must wait no more upon him. Fetzer and Miss MacVane and Miss Knowlton must be told at once who she was, and there must be no slighting of her because she had done this lowly work. One of his favorite occupations in periods of enforced idleness in trains or on steamers had been the construction of various schemes of education based upon what he felt were the deficiencies of his own. He would see what could be done with this girl.

Presently he paused and stood for a long time motionless by his desk. Levis dead! There had been hunger in Levis's eyes, hunger which he might have satisfied. But no reproach should rest upon him henceforth; he would do all for this girl that Levis could have done, perhaps he might do more. He would atone. It was a moment of pure philanthropy, unalloyed by any less exalted impulse.