kill that was being given freely for a Greek
waif, or hurry by a hair's breadth the tiny globule of grey matter that
held his life.

"Tell me if there is anything I can do," he said. He had risen and was
facing the surgeon, looking at him like a little boy--with his hat in
his hand.

The surgeon returned the look. "There will be plenty to do, Mr. Harris.
This, for instance--" He took up the cheque and looked at it and folded
it in slow fingers. "It will be a big lift to the hospital ... and the
boy--there will be things later--for the boy--"

"Private room?" suggested the great man.

"No--the ward is better. It gives him interests--keeps his mind off
himself and keeps him from remembering things. But when he can be
moved, he must be in the country--good food, fresh air, things to amuse
him--he's a jolly little chap!" The surgeon laughed out. "Oh, we shall
bring him through." He added it almost gaily. "He is so sane--he is a
Greek!"

Philip Harris looked at him, uncomprehending. "How long before he can be
moved?" he asked bluntly.

The surgeon paused--"two weeks--three--perhaps--I must have him under my
eye--I can't tell--" He looked at the great man keenly. "What he really
needs, is someone to come in for awhile everyday--to talk with him--or
keep quiet with him--someone with sense."

"His father?" said Philip Harris.

"Not his father. It must be someone he has never seen--no memories to
puzzle him--yet. But someone that he might have known always--all his
life."

"That is Miss Stone," said Philip Harris promptly.

"Does he know Miss Stone?" asked the surgeon.

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