She was indeed pretty. A tall, slender girl—an inch taller than Jim. Big, serious blue eyes she had, and that braided mass of ash-blond hair. She was dressed now in a pale blue jacket like a tunic, to her thighs, and long silver stockings from beneath the China-silk trousers that flared above her knees. She smiled at Jim. “I’d never take _you_ seriously. Dolores says—” Jim sobered. “Dolores.” “Dolores is waiting to see you both. She’s very excited.” Dolores, the little sister of Alice. I never saw her without a pang. In this great age of science she is a pathetic example of what science cannot do. Our wonderful, marvelous age of science! We pride ourselves on it. But this girl had been born blind, and she was one of those rare cases where all the learned surgeons of our learned world could not bring the light to her. Jim called, “’Lo there, Dolores.” “Jimmy! Is that you? I’m so glad to see you!” See him! There was, to me, a grim pathos in her conventional words. “Len is here too, Dolores,” Alice said gently. “Len? Oh, how do you do, Len?” Her hand reached and touched my hair in recognition. Then she turned back to Jim. “I’m glad you’re here, Jimmy. They told me you were coming.” He swept her up, whirled her through the air like a child, and set her gasping upon her feet. “Well, well, how’s my little friend Dolores, huh? Want to do that again? Come on!” He whirled her again and panted. “Getting too big . . . all grown up. Say, Len, she’s prettier every day, isn’t she?” * * * * * Dr. Weatherby was seventy-five years old at this time when he sent for Jim and me. He met us on the lower terrace of his home. He was a squat, powerfully thick-set figure, with long ape-like arms and a thick back slightly humped. His head was overlarge, made to seem larger by its great mass of iron-gray hair. His face, large of feature, was unlined, save by the marks of character stamped upon it. A kindly face it was, smiling with friendship, but always stern in repose. “Well, my boys, you came promptly,” he greeted us. “That’s fine. Come in.” His huge hands gripped us with a strength that made Jim pretend to wince and grin mockingly at Alice. “Come in. We’ll sit in the garden upstairs.” He led us up the inclines through his rambling house and to its roof, where in the starlight we sat on leafy couches in a garden blooming with flowers, shrubs and coned ferns. It was about an hour before dawn, cloudless, moonless—a brilliant firmament of gems strewn upon their purple velvet. Venus was rising now to be the morning star and herald the dawn; red Mars, lying opposite and low, glowed like the ashless end of a cigarro.