Philip Harris shook his head. "No one knows Miss Stone," he said; "but she is the friendliest person in all the world--when I get to heaven, I hope Marcia Stone will be there to show me around--just to take the edge off." He smiled a little.

"Well, she is the person we want--can she come?"

"She sits at home with her hands folded," said Philip Harris. He waited a minute. "She was my little girl's friend," he said at last. "They were always together.

"I remember--" The surgeon held out his hand. "Let her come. She will be invaluable." His voice had a friendly ring. It was no longer a millionaire that faced him--handing out cheques--but a father, like himself. There were four of them at home, waiting on the stairs for him to come at night--and he suddenly saw that Philip Harris was a brave man--holding out for them all--waiting while the little fleck of grey matter knit itself. He looked at him a minute keenly--"Why not come in yourself, now and then," he said, "as he gets better? Later when you take him away, he will know you--better for him."

So the ward became familiar with the red face and Prince Albert coat and striped trousers and patent leather shoes, crunching softly down the still, white room. It was a new Philip Harris, sauntering in at noon with a roll of pictures--a box of sweets, enough candy to ruin the ward--a phonograph under one arm and a new bull pup under the other. The pup sprawled on the floor and waked happy laughs up and down the ward and was borne out, struggling, by a hygienic nurse, and locked in the bathroom. The phonograph stayed and played little tunes for them--jolly tunes, of the music hall, and all outdoors. And Philip Harris enjoyed it as if he were playing with the stock exchange of a world. The brain that could play with a world when it liked, was devoted now, night and day, to a great hospital standing on the edge of the plain, and to the big free ward, and to a dark face, flashing a smile when he came.

XVIII

"ONCE--I--SAW--"

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 b.u.mbled among the flowers and flew past, laden. The boy's eyes followed them. The shadow of a crow's wing dropped on the gra.s.s 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."

XIX

A WOMAN IN THE GARDEN

"When it comes, it may come all at once," the surgeon had said, "and overwhelm him. Better lead up to it--if we can--let him recall it--a bit here--a bit there--feel his way back--to the old place--to himself."

"Where my child is," said Philip Harris.

"Where your child is," repeated the surgeon, "and that clue runs through the frailest, intangiblest matter that fingers ever touched." He had looked down at his own thin, long, firm fingers as if doubting that they could have held that thread for a moment and left it intact.

Philip Harris moved restively a little, and came back. "There has not been a word for seven weeks," he said, "not a breath--"

"They told you--?" said the surgeon.

"That they would wait three months! Yes!" Philip Harris puffed fiercely.

"It is h.e.l.l!" he said.

"The boy is better," said the surgeon. "You have only to wait a little longer now."

And he was whirred away in the great car--to the children that needed him, and Idlewood had settled, in its charmed stillness, into the night.... No one would have guessed that it was a state of siege there--the world pa.s.sed in and out of the big gates--automobiles and drays and foot pa.s.sengers, winding their way up to the low, rambling house that wandered through the flowers toward the river and the wood.

Windows were open everywhere and voices sounded through the garden.

In one of the rooms, darkened to the light, the mistress of the house lay with closed eyes. She could not bear the light, or the sound of voices--listening always to hear a child's laugh among them--the gay little laugh that ran toward her in every room, and called.

She had shut herself away, and only Philip Harris came to the closed room, bringing her news of the search, or sitting quietly by her in the darkness. But for weeks there had been no news, no clue. The search was baffled.... They had not told her of the Greek boy and the muttered words.

"Better not trouble her," the physician had urged. "She cannot bear disappointment--if nothing comes of it."

And no word filtered through to the dim room... and all the clues withdrew in darkness.

Out in the garden Alcibiades and Miss Stone worked among the flowers. It was part of the cure--that they should work there among growing things every day--close to the earth--and his voice sounded happily as they worked.

The woman in the closed room turned her head uneasily. She listened a moment. Then she called.... Marie stood in the doorway.

"Who is _there_--Marie--in the garden?"