"The doctor calls it influenza, but I think they call everything influenza in these days. I know I have been ill a horribly long time, and I can’t get better. I have written to my mother, Doris. I have been obliged to write to her. Perhaps if I could go home a little--quite away from this wretched place--my native air might restore me. But mother has not replied. I think she will have nothing more to do with me. The old idea of the prodigal son’s being welcomed back with best robes and rings and fatted calf is exploded. Parents are not like that in these days!" He spoke bitterly. "But you have not been a prodigal son," said Doris. "Perhaps if you had been, your mother would have proved more merciful. It is the fact that you have acted more nobly than she about not proceeding against my father which stings and humiliates her. Don’t you know, dear, that the higher we raise our standard the more it seems to reflect upon those who allow theirs to drag in the mire? Your mother cannot forgive you for being better than she." There was silence for a few moments in the little room. Bernard could have said several things, but he did not wish to speak against his mother. Presently, however, he remarked, "I don’t feel as if I could get well here. These are such nasty, fusty rooms--so depressing--such a want of air and light--so different from dear old Yorkshire and the breezes to be had on Askern Hill. Do you remember Askern Hill, Doris?" Did she remember? The colour returned into her pale cheeks, and the light into her eyes, as she remembered the last happy occasion upon which she and Bernard trod that hill. "Oh, Bernard, you ought to go back there!" she said. "My poor boy, you would get well and strong if you were there again." "You also," he rejoined, with a look of yearning love. "Oh, Doris, if we could return together!" "If wishes were horses beggars would ride," she said, lightly. "Look here!" she spread a little heap of bank-notes before his astonished eyes. "Count them. There are ninety pounds," she said, for she had brought with her the money she had saved. "Ninety pounds!" exclaimed he. "Yes. Ninety pounds. It is yours. I repay that much of our debt to you to-day." "Ninety pounds! You repay! Debt!" cried he, in bewilderment and indignation. "What nonsense! I cannot take your money." "You must! I insist upon it! I have earned it for you. See. It is all yours," and, gathering up the money, she tried to put it into his hand. But he would not take it. He was no cad that he should take money from a girl. And he seized the opportunity to show her practically that it was quite impossible for him to accept any payment at all from her. The little contest made him so ill and feverish that Doris had to call in his doctor, who, after giving him a draught, insisted upon his going home to Yorkshire forthwith, while he was still able to travel.