yes 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