When the journey was over and the offices inspected, Stephen sat in his room. Fetzer, controlling her emotions in his presence, had gone to the third story both to rejoice and to weep; Miss MacVane and Miss Knowlton, moving about the office, worked with shining eyes. Stephen had promised to see a few patients to-morrow; life would be, Miss MacVane expected, if there was to be any change, happier. Miss Knowlton did not put into words what she expected. Neither thought of Ellen Levis; their household was complete.

The storm in the night had given the park a springlike greenness. The river from Stephen's room was blue, with tiniest silver ripples. A soft breeze stirred the curtains gently and a cool green light filled the pleasant room. The familiar walls rested his eyes; though he had known little but misery in this house, he loved its stateliness and it was now a safe haven. He had begun to be curious about what had been said and done in the medical world in his absence. He had not forgotten the quest upon which he intended to go when he should be wholly relieved from espionage. In the meantime, he thought, drowsily and childishly, it was sufficient to be quiescent and humble. He believed that he should never see Ellen nor desire greatly to see her.

Then he opened his eyes at a slight sound. Ellen was at hand; she had crossed the street and her familiar figure which had a moment ago startled the women in the office approached his door, though Miss Knowlton had directed her with lofty kindness to Fetzer's room.

"She'll take you to see the doctor," Miss Knowlton promised.

"Is he still ill?" Ellen asked, astonished.

"He's not entirely well." Miss Knowlton spoke as though he were her child. "But he'll see you, I'm sure."

If Miss MacVane's sight had been keener, she would have interpreted the long look which Ellen gave Miss Knowlton. In it were astonishment, resentment, and even defiance. She would break no resolutions, would not endanger her self-control, her ticket for her journey was in her purse, but she would not be escorted to Dr. Lanfair's room by Mrs. Fetzer at Miss Knowlton's suggestion!

Stephen saw her at first dimly across the wide room—could she be a deluding vision? He felt the injured resentment of a man hit when he is down.

When he was convinced of her reality, he clutched the arm of his chair. He did not rise to meet her, realizing that he would need all his physical strength to support his resolution and his pride. When she came toward him, and he saw that some harsh trouble had deepened her eyes, he grew still more weak. He wished for Fetzer or Miss MacVane or Miss Knowlton—he thought with confused rage of Miss Knowlton—if she was worth anything she should have defended him from this!

"I didn't know you were here," said Ellen in her low voice. "Miss MacVane and Miss Knowlton just told me."

"Or I suppose you wouldn't have come!" Had he said the foolish words or merely thought them?

"I'm going to Ithaca to-night," went on Ellen.

She was halfway across the room on her way to shake hands with him when she halted. "I'm going to—" She stood staring, incredulous, at his maimed body. She could not move or speak. It is hard to say which she felt more deeply, an anguished pity or a sharp resentment.

Stephen saw her horror; the theory which he had framed to account for her absence was then quite proved. He even believed that he saw her hands lifted to shield her eyes. Her repulsion and terror were unendurable, they constituted the final insult of fate.

"Does it frighten you?" he asked, wishing to hurt her. She had no business to come now!

Her gaze transferred itself to his eyes and held them for a second. After a long moment she spoke slowly, looking down, with the slightest emphasis on her last word.

"What did you say to me?"

Stephen leaned forward, hating himself.

"Didn't you know, Ellen?"

A dumb mouth answered.

"I had an infected hand. Won't you sit down?"

Ellen did not move. Her eyes lifted, regarded him steadily.

"Did you never wonder why I didn't come?"

Stephen could not endure her gaze. Alas, he was not cured, she was dearer, more desirable than she had ever been. Perhaps if he were wise and wary, if he did not betray himself, he could keep her childish affection until some one won her away! He could then grow gradually accustomed to that which now seemed worse than death.

"You wrote and I answered," he said lightly. "Did you say you were going back to school? Why so early, Ellen?"

"I'm going to—"

"Do sit down!" he cried. Did she mean to flee? "I won't hurt you. I can't hurt you!" With an effort of his will he looked at her again; he saw her waving hair, her broad forehead, her dark eyes, her round figure, all of sweet Ellen. He looked at her, steadily and long, in the quiet room as though he should never see her again.

He saw not only her body; he saw with a clear vision her soul, and knew that his journey northward would have been in vain, that he could never in such fashion have made her his. In her gaze was all her father's quiet dignity, all his self-respect, which could not be impaired though all else were taken. She had gained, Stephen saw plainly, the resources of maturity; though she had been cruelly hurt, she still lifted her head.

But he saw more than the beauty of Ellen's body and the worth of her soul; he read her heart and found there that what he desired was to be given him. He rose to his feet without taking his eyes from her. The energy of life returned; he felt no weakness; he knew that that which he was to have was of inestimable value and he determined to be lacking in no grateful return.

Ellen moved a little toward him, her eyes now downcast.

"I have come to say good-bye."

He made no answer. The edge of the awning was slightly lifted in the breeze, the green light brightened, a shaft of sunlight struck across the room, and he stood still. He would not say, "Ellen, I am too old," or, "Ellen, I am maimed." He would not hurt her more than she had been hurt. She had, it was clear, no suspicion that Fate had given her less than the best. He stood looking at her quizzically, almost merrily, waiting for her to lift her eyes.