Miss Stone sat by the boy on the lawn at Idlewood. A great canopy of khaki duck was spread above them, and the boy lay on a wicker couch that could be lifted and carried from place to place as the wind or the sun, or a whim directed.

Five days they had been here every day full of sunshine and the fragrance of flowers from the garden that ran along the terraces from the house to the river bank, and was a riot of midsummer colour and scent. The boy’s face had gained clear freshness and his eyes, fixed on Miss Stone’s face, glowed. “I like it here,” he said.

“Yes, Alcie.” Miss Stone bent toward him. “You are getting strong every day you will soon be able to walk to-morrow, perhaps.” She glanced at the thin legs under their light covering.

The boy laughed a little and moved them. “I can walk now ” he declared.

But she shook her head. “No, I will tell you a story.” So her voice went on and on in the summer quiet insects buzzed faintly, playing the song of the day. Bees bumbled among the flowers and flew past, laden. The boy’s eyes followed them. The shadow of a crow’s wing dropped on the grass and drifted by. The summer day held itself and Miss Stone’s voice wove a dream through it.

When the boy opened his eyes again she was sitting very quiet, her hands in her lap, her eyes fixed on the river that flowed beyond the garden. The boy’s eyes studied her face. “Once I saw you ” he said. His hand stole out and touched the grey dress.

Miss Stone started. They had waited a long time but not for this. “Yes, Alcie, once you saw me go on ”

“ saw you in a carriage,” finished Alcie, with quick smile. “You ride straight you straight now.” He looked at her with devoted eyes.

“Yes.” She was holding her breath, very evenly and she did not look at him, but at the distant river. They seemed held in a charm a word might break it.

The boy breathed a happy sigh that bubbled forth. “I like it here,” he said dreamily.... Should she speak?

The long silence spread between them. The bird sang in the wood a clear, mid-summer call.

The boy listened, and turned his eyes. “A little girl with you then,” he said softly, “in carriage. Where is little girl?” It was the first question he had asked.

She swayed a little in her grey softness but she did not look at him, but at the river. “You would like that little girl, Alcie,” she said quietly. “We all love her. Some day you shall see her only get well and you shall see her.” It was a soft word, like a cry, and the boy looked at her with curious eyes.

“I get well,” he said contentedly, “I see her.” He slipped a hand under his cheek and lay quiet.

“Doing well,” said the surgeon, “couldn’t be better.” He had run down for the day and was to go back in the cool evening.

He stood with Philip Harris on the terrace overlooking the river. Harris threw away a stump of cigar. “You think he will make complete recovery?”

“No doubt of it,” said the surgeon promptly.

“Then ?” Philip Harris turned a quick eye on him.

But the man shook his head. “Wait,” he said and again, slowly, “wait.”

The darkness closed around them, but they did not break it. A faint questioning honk sounded, and Philip Harris turned. “The car is ready,” he said, “to take you back.”