"Not now, lad." Scott paused, and all the natural kindliness came back
into his eyes. "My sister was just getting her calm again when I came
away. We won't disturb her now."

"How is your sister, sir?" asked Billy. "Isn't she feeling the strain
rather?"

"No, she is standing it wonderfully. In fact," Scott hesitated
momentarily, "I believe that in helping Dinah, she has found herself
again."

"Do you really?" said Billy. "Then I do hope for her sake that Dinah will
buck up and get well."

"Thanks, old chap." Scott held out a friendly hand. "I'm sorry you're
having such a rotten time. Come along to me any time when you're feeling
bored! I shall be only too pleased when I'm at liberty."

"You're a brick, sir," said Billy. "And I say, you'll send for me, won't
you, if--if--" He broke off. "You know, as I said before, Dinah and I are
pals," he ended wistfully.

"Of course I will, lad. Of course I will." Scott wrung his hand hard.
"But we'll pull her through, please God! We must pull her through."

"If anyone can, you will," said Billy with conviction.

Like Dinah, he had caught a glimpse in that brief conversation of the
soul that inhabited that weak and puny form.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE WAY BACK

It was three days later that Dinah began at last the long and weary
pilgrimage back again. Almost against her will she turned her faltering
steps up the steep ascent; for she was too tired for any sustained
effort. Only that something seemed to be perpetually drawing her she
would not have been moved to make the effort at all. For she was so
piteously weak that the bare exertion of opening her eyes was almost more
than she could accomplish. But ever the unknown influence urged her, very
gently but very persistently, never passive, never dormant, but always
drawing her as by an invisible cord back to the world of sunshine and
tears that seemed so very far away from the land of shadows in which she
wandered.

All active suffering had left her, and she would fain have been at peace;
but the hand that clasped hers would not be denied. The motherly voice
that had calmed the wildest fantasies of her fevered brain spoke now to
her with tenderest encouragement; the love that surrounded her drew her,
uplifted her, sustained her. And gradually, as she crept back from the
shadows, she came to lean upon this love as upon a sure support, to count
upon it as her own exclusive possession--a wonderful new gift that had
come t