ie and Milly changed the rooms at
Crossroads back to their original uses. The nurses, no longer needed,
packed their competent bags, and departed. Beulah at the Playhouse had
her first square meal, and smiled back at Eric.

The strain had told fearfully on Richard. Yet he persisted in his efforts
long after it seemed that the countryside was safe. He tried to pack into
twelve short weeks what he would normally have done in twelve long
months. He spurred his fellow physicians to increased activities, he
urged authorities to unprecedented exertions. He did the work of two men
and sometimes of three. And he was so exhausted that he felt that if ever
his work was finished he would sleep for a million years.

It was in September that he began to wonder how he would square things up
with Eve. At first she had written to him blaming him for his desertion.
But not for a moment did she take it seriously. "You'll be coming back,
Dicky," was the burden of her song. He wrote hurried pleasant letters
which were to some extent bulletins of the day's work. If Eve was not
satisfied she consoled herself with the thought that he was tearingly
busy and terribly tired.

In her last letter she had said, "Austin doesn't know what to do without
you. He told Pip that you were his right hand."

Austin had said more than that to Anne. He had found her one hot day by
the fountain. Nancy had written to her of the death of Francois' mother.
The letter was in her hand.

Austin had also had a letter. "Brooks is a fool. He writes that he is
going to stay."

Anne shook her head. "He is not a fool," she said; "he is doing what he
_had_ to do. You would know if you had ever lived at Crossroads. Why, the
Brooks family belongs there, and the Brooks doctors."

"So you have encouraged him?" Austin said.

"I have had nothing to do with it. I haven't heard from him since he
left, and I haven't written."

"And you think he is--right to--bury--himself?"

Anne sat very still, her hands folded quietly. Her calm eyes were on the
golden fish which swam in the waters at the base of the fountain.

"I am not sure," she said; "it all has so much to do with--old
traditions--and inherited feelings--and ideals. He could be just as
useful here, but he would never be happy. You can't imagine how they look
up to him down there. And here he looked up to you."

"Then you think I didn't give him a free hand?"

"No. But there he is a Brooks of Crossroads. And it is