, you'll let me keep him--a little longer?"

She spoke very softly and sweetly.

"If your kindness really wishes it," he said, rather reluctantly. "But
what does Georgina say?"

"Georgina is just as keen as I am," said Cynthia boldly. "Don't you see
how fond she is of him already?"

Buntingford could not truthfully say that he had seen any signs on
Georgina's part, so far, of more than a decent neutrality in the matter.
Georgina was a precisian; devoted to order, and in love with rules. The
presence of the invalid boy, his nurse, and his teacher, must upset every
rule and custom of the little house. Could she really put up with it? In
general, she made the impression upon Philip of a very wary cat, often
apparently asleep, but with her claws ready. He felt uncomfortable; but
Cynthia had her way.

A specially trained teacher, sent down by Mrs. Delane, arrived a few days
later, and a process began of absorbing and fascinating interest to all
the spectators, except Georgina, who more than kept her head.

Every morning Buntingford would motor up to town, spend some strenuous
hours in demobilization work at the Admiralty, returning in the evening
to receive Cynthia's report of the day. Miss Denison, the boy's teacher,
who had been trained in one of the London Special Schools, was a little
round-faced lady with spectacles, apparently without any emotions, but
really filled with that educator's passion which in so many women of our
day fills the place of motherhood. From the beginning she formed the
conclusion that the pitiable little fellow entrusted to her was to a
great extent educable; but that he would not live to maturity. This
latter conclusion was carefully hidden from Buntingford, though it was
known to Cynthia; and Philip knew, for a time, all the happiness, the
excitement even of each day's slight advance, combined with a boundless
hope for the future. He spent his evenings absorbed in the voluminous
literature dealing with the deaf-mute, which has grown up since the days
of Laura Bridgman and Helen Keller. But Laura Bridgman and Helen
Keller--as he eagerly reminded himself--were both of them blind; only one
sense--that of touch--was left to them. Arthur's blue eyes, the copy of
his own, already missed his father when he left home in the morning, and
greeted him when he came home at night. They contained for Philip a
mystery and a promise that he was never tired of studying. Every evening
he would ride over fr