t
from his pocket as though it were a jewel of great price. "Put my finger
on the words that say, 'I love him still.'"

Blinded with tears and choked by sobs, Barbara pointed out the line.
That, at least, was true. The old man raised it to his lips as a monk
might raise his crucifix when kneeling in penitential prayer.

"I keep it always near me," he said, softly. "I shall keep it until
I can see."

* * * * *

Long after he had gone to bed, Barbara lay trembling. The problem that
had risen up before her without warning seemed to have no possible
solution. If he recovered his sight, she could not keep him from knowing
their poverty. One swift glance would show him all--and destroy his
faith in her. That was unavoidable. But--need he know that the dead had
deceived him too?

The innate sex-loyalty, which is strong in all women who are really
fine, asserted itself in full power now. It was not only the desire to
save her father pain that made Barbara resolve, at any cost, to keep the
betraying letter from him. It was also the secret loyalty, not of a
child to an unknown mother, but of woman to woman--of sex to sex.

[Sidenote: To-Day and To-Morrow]

The house was very still. Outside, a belated cricket kept up his cheery
fiddling as he fared to his hidden home. Sometimes a leaf fell and
rustled down the road ahead of a vagrant wind. The clock ticked
monotonously. Second by second and minute by minute, To-Morrow advanced
upon Barbara; that To-Morrow which must be made surely right by the
deeds of To-Day.

"If I could go," murmured Barbara. She was free of the plaster and she
could move about in bed easily. Ironically enough, her crutches leaned
against the farther wall, in sight but as completely out of reach as
though they were in the next room.

Barbara sat up in bed and, cautiously, placed her two tiny bare feet on
the floor. With great effort, she stood up, sustained by a boundless
hope. She discovered that she could stand, even though she ached
miserably, but when she attempted to move, she fell back upon the bed.
She could not walk a step.

[Sidenote: Vanishing Hopes]

Faint with fear and pain, she got back into bed. She knew, now, all that
the red-haired young man had refused to tell her. He was too kind to say
that she was not to walk, after all. He was leaving it for Doctor
Conrad--or Eloise.

Objects in the room danced before her mockingly. Her crutches were
veiled by