At this moment Harold, George’s boy, with a pale, frightened face and a pair of very red eyes, came into the room and up to his father. He had no eyes for his Uncle William standing half within the long, crimson folds of the library curtains. "Dad," said the boy, "did you know I——" "Eh?" said his father, turning his best ear. Then he saw his son’s face. "Why, what’s the matter?" he asked anxiously. "Is Syl——" "Dad," burst out the boy, "I—I was the one that did it. _I—threw—Syl!_" He buried his head against his father’s arm. "Why, Harry—Harry, boy——" began his father in consternation. Uncle William came out from behind the curtain. He thought he had better get out of the room. But as he passed Harold his hand patted the young head. He stooped to the boy’s ear. "We all know it was an accident," he whispered. A nursemaid knocked upon the door of Mr. Stephen Kingsley’s room. In her arms was Mrs. Sam’s baby, the prettiest baby of the three who were in the house. "Mr. Kingsley," said the maid, "Mr. Dent—the young man—said I should bring Dorothy to you and ask you to take care of her for a little while, if you didn’t mind. He has something for me to do." "Yes, yes—yes, yes," answered the invalid. "I’ll keep her." He reached out his arms. "How is the boy now, do you know?" he asked. He had had a bulletin within the last five minutes, but minutes go slowly under suspense. "They think he may not be badly hurt, sir," said the maid. But this was what they had told him from the beginning. He felt that they could not know. They were afraid to alarm him. Fall so far and not be badly hurt? It was not possible. He took the baby, and laid his white cheek against hers of rose-leaf pink. So Jim had sent him the baby to take up his mind. Was there anything Jim didn’t think of? And one certainly cannot look after an eight-months-old baby and not give the matter considerable attention. Young Sylvester Kingsley, Samuel’s son, opened his eyes. The first thing he saw was his mother’s face, which smiled at him. Mothers can always smile, if necessary, thank God! The next thing noticeable was his Cousin Jim’s bright blue eyes looking rather brighter than usual. He heard a caught breath somewhere near and then a whisper: "Sh-h—don’t startle him!" It sounded like his Aunt Clara’s rather sibilant whisper. Aunt Clara had the tiniest sort of a lisp. There was a strong smell of camphor in the air, and Syl’s forehead seemed to be oppressed by something heavy and cold. He attempted to put up his hand to his head, but the thing didn’t work, somehow. He was conscious that his arm hurt, besides. He didn’t feel exactly like speaking, so he stared questioningly into his Cousin Jim’s face. "All right, old man," replied Cousin Jim instantly, in a quiet, cheerful sort of way which was most reassuring. "You’ve had a bit of a knockout, but we’ll soon have you fixed up. Yes, I know that arm hurts—that’ll be all right presently."