was about to answer sharply.
Then somehow the poor, anxious, loving mother's absolute preoccupation
with her son struck her as right after all.

"If it were my son," thought Phyllis, "I wouldn't worry about any
strange hired girl's feelings either, maybe. I'd just think about
him.... I promise I'll look after Mr. Harrington's welfare as if he were
my own brother!" she ended aloud impulsively. "Indeed, you may trust
me."

"I am--sure you will," panted Mrs. Harrington. "You look like--a good
girl, and--and old enough to be responsible--twenty-eight--thirty?"

"Not very far from that," said Phyllis serenely.

"And you are sure you will know when the attendants are neglectful? I
speak to them all the time, but I never can be sure.... And now you'd
better see poor Allan. This is one of his good days. Just think, dear
Isabel, he spoke to me twice without my speaking to him this morning!"

"Oh--must I?" asked Phyllis, dismayed. "Couldn't I wait till--till it
happens?"

Mrs. Harrington actually laughed a little at her shyness, lighting up
like a girl. Phyllis felt dimly, though she tried not to, that through
it all her mother-in-law-elect was taking pleasure in the dramatic side
of the situation she had engineered.

"Oh, my dear, you must see him. He expects you," she answered almost
gayly. The procession of three moved down the long room towards a door,
Phyllis's hand guiding the wheel-chair. She was surprised to find
herself shaking with fright. Just what she expected to find beyond the
door she did not know, but it must have been some horror, for it was
with a heart-bound of wild relief that she finally made out Allan
Harrington, lying white in the darkened place.

A Crusader on a tomb. Yes, he looked like that. In the room's half-dusk
the pallor of his still, clear-featured face and his long, clear-cut
hands was nearly the same as the whiteness of the couch-draperies. His
hair, yellow-brown and waving, flung back from his forehead like a
crest, and his dark brows and lashes made the only note of darkness
about him. To Phyllis's beauty-loving eyes he seemed so perfect an image
that she could have watched him for hours.

"Here's Miss Braithwaite, my poor darling," said his mother. "The young
lady we have been talking about so long."

The Crusader lifted his eyelids and let them fall again.

"Is she?" he said listlessly.

"Don't you want to talk to her, darling boy?" his mother persisted, half
out of breath, but