Then he remembered that Mrs. Thornburg wished to see him; that, according to Thornburg, she had “mentioned Bonnie May.” Possibly she knew something. At any rate, Baron felt that he ought to call on her. It was just after the dinner-hour--of the day on which Mrs. Baron had announced her policy of reconstruction--and the evening was flinging a challenge to all mankind to get out of doors and enjoy the spring air. He took up his stick and hat and left the house. * * * * * He found Mrs. Thornburg sadly changed since he had seen her last. She was unmistakably very ill, though the only symptoms revealed to Baron’s inexpert eye were a pathetic thinness and pallor and a profound lassitude. She was alone, Thornburg having just gone out. “It was good of you to come,” she said when Baron entered. She spoke as if she had been expecting him. And without circumlocution she continued: “I wanted to talk to you about the little girl. You haven’t let anybody have her, have you?” “No,” replied Baron. Then he added lightly: “I think we’ve changed our minds about letting her go. It seems likely now that we’ll keep her with us indefinitely.” He was glad that her glance rested upon her thin, clasped hands. He could note the effect of his statement with a steady scrutiny which need cause him no compunction. To his surprise she seemed quite pleased. “It makes me glad to know that she is to be with nice people,” she said, lifting to him now a softly grateful glance. She explained: “You see, I’m sure I’m too ill to have her now, even if....” Her lips trembled and her eyes filled. “But you’ll be better,” said Baron, reading her thought. Clearly she had despaired of ever being any better. “When you’re able to have her, she’ll be so happy to visit you. I mean Bonnie May. She’s a wonderfully sociable little creature. If she were invited to come to see you she would be delighted. Attentions like that--such as you would pay to grown people--have a wonderful effect upon her.” “Yes.... And of course some day she will be coming here to stay.” “You mean--” Baron was surprised that his suggestion had been received with a dully uttered, enigmatic remark, rather than gratitude or eagerness. “You don’t know what I mean by that?” There was regret in her tone, reluctance in her glance--as if she knew he was not dealing honestly and frankly by her. “No, truly, I don’t.” “Ah, well.... But I wanted to tell you why I was so eager to have her when you called before. You see, I wanted to--to atone....” She sat listlessly, lost in troubled memories, and Baron waited. “Mr. Thornburg came to me one time, in the one moment of his greatest need, and asked me to help him. And I failed him.” She leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment, and Baron thought how out of harmony she was: the ailing woman whose whole being was in a minor key, amid surroundings which suggested only sturdiness and well-being.