rew off his coat, caked thick and
fairly rattling with its burden, threw off his hat, heavy and dripping,
and as he was, his heart of steel beating in him like a tender human
heart, he limped up the quiet stairs. Even then he noticed that there
were signs of a feast in the house. It should have been the annual
dinner of Mr. Carew. The odours of flowers that had died were sickening
in the heat. Smilax twisted around the balustrade of the stairs met his
work-stained hand that trembled in the leaves. On the second floor, some
one, he was not clear, but afterwards he thought it must have been Miss
Eulalie, met him and took him in.

In the feeble sick-room light, grouped a few people whose forms and
faces go to make part of the sombre pictures of watchers; that group in
which at some time or other each inhabitant of the world takes his
place. There was one kneeling figure; the others stood round the bed.
The little bark, quite big enough to carry such a small freight thus far
on the voyage, was nearly into port.

Bella lay close to her little brother, her dark hair and dress the only
shadow on the white bed covers. Gardiner's hair was brushed back from
his brow, he looked older, but still very small to go so far alone.
Gardiner was travelling, travelling--climbing steep mountains, white
with snow, and his breath came in short laboured sighs, fast, fast--it
was the only sound in the room. Bella had not left his side for hours,
her cheek pressed the pillow by his restless head. Her tears had fallen
and dried, fallen and dried. Bella alone knew what Gardiner tried to
say. His faltering words, his halting English, were familiar to the
sister and she interpreted to the others, to whom Gardiner, too small to
reach them, had never been very near. Twenty times the kneeling figure
had asked--

"What does he say, Bella? What does he want?"

"He thinks it is a game," the little sister said; "he says it's cold, he
says he wants Cousin Antony."

Since his summons, when Gardiner found that he must gird his little
loins for the journey, his mind had gone to the big cousin who had so
triumphantly carried him over the imaginary steeps.

From the door, where he had been standing on the edge of the group, a
tall figure in a red flannel shirt came forward, bent down, and before
any one knew that he had come, or who he was, he was speaking to the
sick child.

"Gardiner, little cousin, here's your old cousin Antony come back."

Gardiner