fleck of grey
matter knit itself. He looked at him a minute keenly--"Why not come in
yourself, now and then," he said, "as he gets better? Later when you
take him away, he will know you--better for him."

So the ward became familiar with the red face and Prince Albert coat
and striped trousers and patent leather shoes, crunching softly down
the still, white room. It was a new Philip Harris, sauntering in at
noon with a roll of pictures--a box of sweets, enough candy to ruin the
ward--a phonograph under one arm and a new bull pup under the other. The
pup sprawled on the floor and waked happy laughs up and down the ward
and was borne out, struggling, by a hygienic nurse, and locked in the
bathroom. The phonograph stayed and played little tunes for them--jolly
tunes, of the music hall, and all outdoors. And Philip Harris enjoyed it
as if he were playing with the stock exchange of a world. The brain that
could play with a world when it liked, was devoted now, night and day,
to a great hospital standing on the edge of the plain, and to the big
free ward, and to a dark face, flashing a smile when he came.

XVIII

"ONCE--I--SAW--"

Miss Stone sat by the boy on the lawn at Idlewood. A great canopy of
khaki duck was spread above them, and the boy lay on a wicker couch that
could be lifted and carried from place to place as the wind or the sun,
or a whim directed.

Five days they had been here--every day full of sunshine and the
fragrance of flowers from the garden that ran along the terraces from
the house to the river bank, and was a riot of midsummer colour and
scent. The boy's face had gained clear freshness and his eyes, fixed on
Miss Stone's face, glowed. "I like--it--here," he said.

"Yes, Alcie." Miss Stone bent toward him. "You are getting strong every
day--you will soon be able to walk--to-morrow, perhaps." She glanced at
the thin legs under their light covering.

The boy laughed a little and moved them. "I can walk now--" he declared.

But she shook her head. "No, I will tell you a story." So her voice went
on and on in the summer quiet--insects buzzed faintly, playing the song
of the day. Bees bumbled among the flowers and flew past, laden. The
boy's eyes followed them. The shadow of a crow's wing dropped on the
grass and drifted by. The summer day held itself--and Miss Stone's voice
wove a dream through it.

When the boy opened his eyes again she was sitting very quiet, her hands
in her lap, her e