nt, it began to seem to her that each time his hand enclosed in hers
knocked the bricks down, there was a certain faint flash in the blue
eyes, as though the sudden movement of the bricks gave the child a thrill
of pleasure. But to fall they must be built up. And his absorbed teacher
laboured vainly, through sitting after sitting, to communicate to the
child some sense of the connection between the two sets of movements.

Time after time the small waxen hand lay inert in hers as she put a brick
between its listless fingers, and guided it towards the brick waiting for
it. Gradually the column of bricks mounted--built by her action, her
fingers enclosing his passive ones--and, finally, came the expected
crash, followed by the strange slight thrill in the child's features. But
for long there was no sign of spontaneous action of any kind on his part.
The ingenuity of his teacher attempted all the modes of approach to the
obstructed brain that were known to her, through the two senses left
him--sight and touch. But for many days in vain.

At last, one evening towards the end of June, when his mother had been
dead little more than a fortnight, Cynthia, Mrs. Delane's indefatigable
pupil, was all at once conscious of a certain spring in the child's hand,
as though it became--faintly--self-moved, a living thing. She cried out.
Buntingford was there looking on; and all three hung over the child.
Cynthia again placed the brick in his hand, and withdrew her own. Slowly
the child moved it forward--dropped it--then, with help, raised it
again--and, finally, with only the very slight guidance from Cynthia, put
it on top of the other. Another followed, and another, his hand growing
steadier with each attempt. Then breathing deeply,--flushed, and with a
puckered forehead--the boy looked up at his father. Tears of
indescribable joy had rushed to Buntingford's eyes. Cynthia's were hidden
in her handkerchief.

The child's nurse peremptorily intervened and carried him off to bed.
Mrs. Delane first arranged with Buntingford for the engagement of a
special teacher, taught originally by herself, and then asked for
something to take her to the station. She had set things in train, and
had no time to lose. There were too many who wanted her.

Buntingford and Cynthia walked across the park to Beechmark. From the
extreme despondency they were lifted to an extreme of hope. Buntingford
had felt, as it were, the spirit of his son strain towards his