“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 frailest², 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 restively³ 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 puffed⁴ fiercely. “It is hell!” 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 passed in and out of the big gates—automobiles and drays and foot passengers, winding⁵ their way up to the low, rambling⁶ 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 doorway⁷.
 
“Who is there—Marie—in the garden?”
 
The maid stole to the window and peered through the shutters⁸. She came back to the bed. “It’s a boy,” she said, “a Greek boy—and Miss Stone.”
 
“Why is he here?” asked the woman, querulously.
 
The maid paused—discreet. She knew—everyone except the woman lying with closed eyes—knew why the boy was here.... She bent⁹ and adjusted the pillow, smoothing it. “He is someone Mr. Harris sent down,” she said, “someone to get well.”
 
There was no reply. The woman lay quiet. “I want to get up, Marie,” she said at last. “It is stifling¹⁰ here.”
 
“Yes, Madame.”
 
The windows were opened a little—the light came in slowly, and Mrs. Philip Harris stepped at last into the loggia that led from her windows—out toward the garden. Grapevines climbed the posts and tendril shadows were on the ground beneath. They rested on the frail¹ figure moving under them toward the light.
 
Marie hovered¹¹ near her, with pillows and a sunshade, and her face full of care.
 
But the w............