he car, sewing; another nurse, likewise clothed
in white, had just come out from the drawing-room at the end of the
car; Avery and Sinclair apparently had been playing cribbage, for Avery
sat at a little table in the section which had been occupied by
Santoine, with the cards and cribbage board in front of him. The
surgeon led Eaton to the door of the drawing-room, showed him in and
left him.

Harriet Santoine was sitting on the little lounge opposite the berth
where her father lay. She was watching the face of her father, and as
Eaton stood in the door, he saw her lean forward and gently touch her
father's hand; then she turned and saw Eaton.

"Here is Mr. Eaton, Father," she said.

"Sit down," Santoine directed.

Harriet made room for Eaton upon the seat beside her; and Eaton,
sitting down, gazed across at the blind man in the berth. Santoine was
lying flat on his back, his bandaged head turned a little toward Eaton
and supported by pillows; he was not wearing his dark glasses, and his
eyes were open. Eyes of themselves are capable of no expression except
as they may be clear or bloodshot, or by the contraction or dilation of
the pupils, or as they shift or are fixed upon some object: their
"expression" is caused by movements of the lids and brows and other
parts of the face. Santoine's eyes had the motionlessness of the eyes
of those who have been long blind; seeing nothing, with pupils which
did not change in size, they had only the abstracted look which, with
men who see, accompanies deep thought. The blind man was very weak and
must stay quite still; and he recognized it; but he knew too that his
strength was more than equal to the task of recovery, and he showed
that he knew it. His mind and will were, obviously, at their full
activity, and he had fully his sense of hearing.

This explained to Eaton the better color in his daughter's face; yet
she was still constrained and nervous; evidently she had not found her
ordeal over with the start of convalescence of her father. Her lips
trembled now as she turned to Eaton; but she did not speak directly to
him yet; it was Basil Santoine who suddenly inquired:

"What is it they call you?"

"My name is Philip D. Eaton." Eaton realized as soon as he had spoken
that both question and answer had been unnecessary, and Santoine had
asked only to hear Eaton's voice.

The blind man was silent for a moment, as he seemed to consider the
voice and try again vainl