Bianca sat on in the old golden chair, watching the deep hollows beneath the sleeper's temples, the puffs of breath stirring the silver round his mouth. Her ears burned crimson. Carried out of herself by the sight of that old form, dearer to her than she had thought, fighting its great battle for the sake of its idea, her spirit grew all tremulous and soft within her. With eagerness she embraced the thought of self-effacement. It did not seem to matter whether she were first with Hilary. Her spirit should so manifest its capacity for sacrifice that she would be first with him through sheer nobility. At this moment she could almost have taken that common little girl into her arms and kissed her. So would all disquiet end! Some harmonious messenger had fluttered to her for a second--the gold-winged bird of peace. In this sensuous exaltation her nerves vibrated like the strings of a violin. When Mr. Stone woke it was past three o'clock and Bianca at once handed him another cup of strong beef-tea. He swallowed it, and said: “What is this?” “Beef-tea.” Mr. Stone looked at the empty cup. “I must not drink it. The cow and the sheep are on the same plane as man.” “But how do you feel, dear?” “I feel,” said Mr. Stone, “able to dictate what I have already written--not more. Has she come?” “Not yet; but I will go and find her if you like.” Mr. Stone looked at his daughter wistfully. “That will be taking up your time,” he said. Bianca answered: “My time is of no consequence.” Mr. Stone stretched his hands out to the fire. “I will not consent,” he said, evidently to himself, “to be a drag on anyone. If that has come, then I must go!” Bianca, placing herself beside him on her knees, pressed her hot cheek against his temple. “But it has not come, Dad.” “I hope not,” said Mr. Stone. “I wish to end my book first.” The sudden grim coherence of his last two sayings terrified Bianca more than all his feverish, utterances. “I rely on your sitting quite still,” she said, “while I go and find her.” And with a feeling in her heart as though two hands had seized and were pulling it asunder, she went out. Some half-hour later Hilary slipped quietly in, and stood watching at the door. Mr. Stone, seated on the very verge of his armchair, with his hands on its arms, was slowly rising to his feet, and slowly falling back again, not once, but many times, practising a standing posture. As Hilary came into his line of sight, he said: “I have succeeded twice.” “I am very glad,” said Hilary. “Won't you rest now, sir?” “It is my knees,” said Mr. Stone. “She has gone to find her.” Hilary heard those words with bewilderment, and, sitting down on the other chair, waited. “I have fancied,” said Mr. Stone, looking at him wistfully, “that when we pass away from life we may become the wind. Is that your opinion?” “It is a new thought to me,” said Hilary.