t down," she
said, "someone to get well."

There was no reply. The woman lay quiet. "I want to get up, Marie," she
said at last. "It is stifling here."

"Yes, Madame."

The windows were opened a little--the light came in slowly, and
Mrs. Philip Harris stepped at last into the loggia that led from her
windows--out toward the garden. Grapevines climbed the posts and tendril
shadows were on the ground beneath. They rested on the frail figure
moving under them toward the light.

Marie hovered near her, with pillows and a sunshade, and her face full
of care.

But the woman waved her back. "I do not need you, Marie. Here--I will
take the sunshade. Now, go back." She moved on slowly. The voices had
died away. In the distance, she saw Miss Stone, moving toward the wood,
alone. She paused for a moment, watching the grey figure--a little cloud
passed across her face. She had not seen Miss Stone--since... she did
not blame her--but she could not see her. She moved on slowly, the
light from the sunshade touching the lines in her face and flushing them
softly. Suddenly she stopped. On a low couch, a little distance away, a
boy lay asleep. She came up to him softly and stood watching him. There
was something in the flushed face, in the childish, drooping lip and
tossed hair--that reminded her. Slowly she sank down beside him, hardly
breathing.

All about them, the summer went on--the quiet, gentle warmth and the
fresh scent of blossoms. The boy murmured a little, and threw out an
arm, and slept on. The woman's eyes watched the sleeping face. Something
mysterious was in it--a look of other worlds. It was the look of
Betty--at night... when she lay asleep. It certainly was from some other
world. The woman bent forward a little. The dark eyes opened--and looked
at her--and smiled. The boy sat up. "I sleep," he said.

He rubbed his eyes, boyishly, smiling still to her. "I very sleepy," he
said. "I work." He rubbed his arms. "I work hard."

She questioned him and moved a little away, and he came and sat at her
feet, telling her of himself--with quiet slowness. As she questioned him
he told her all that he knew. And they chatted in the sunshine--subtly
drawn to each other--happy in something they could not have said.

The boy had grown refined by his illness--the sturdy hands that had
guided the push-cart had lost their roughened look and seemed the shape
of some old statue; and the head, poised on the round throat, was as if
s