"It's his lordship's way to think of things," the discreet answer came impersonally. Robin looked slowly round the small and really quite wonderful room. "You know I said that, the first night we came here." "Yes?" Dowie answered. Robin turned her eyes upon her. They were no longer hollowed, but they still looked much too large. "Dowie," she said. "He _knows_ things." "He always did," said Dowie. "Some do and some don't." "He _knows_ things--as Donal does. The secret things you can't talk about--the meaning of things." She went on as if she were remembering bit by bit. "When we were in the Wood in the dark, he said the first thing that made my mind begin to move--almost to think. That was because he _knew_. Knowing things made him send the book." The fact was that he knew much of which it was not possible for him to speak, and in passing a shop window he had been fantastically arrested by a mere pair of small sleeves--the garment to which they belonged having by chance so fallen that they seemed to be tiny arms holding themselves out in surrendering appeal. They had held him a moment or so staring and then he had gone into the shop and asked for their catalogue. "Yes, he knew," Dowie replied. A letter had been written to London signed by Dowie and the models and patterns had been sent to the village and brought to the castle by Jock Macaur. Later there had come rolls of fine flannel and lawn, with gossamer thread and fairy needles and embroidery floss. Then the sewing began. Doctor Benton had gradually begun to look forward to his daily visits with an interest stimulated by a curiosity become eager. The most casual looker-on might have seen the change taking place in his patient day by day and he was not a casual looker-on. Was the improvement to be relied upon? Would the mysterious support suddenly fail them? "What in God's name should we do if it did?" he broke out unconsciously aloud one day when Dowie and he were alone together. "If it did what, sir?" she asked. "If it stopped--the dream?" Dowie understood. By this time she knew that, when he asked questions, took notes and was professionally exact, he had ceased to think of Robin merely as a patient. She had touched him in some unusual way which had drawn him within the circle of her innocent woe. He was under the spell of her pathetic youngness which made Dowie herself feel as if they were watching over a child called upon to bear something it was unnatural for a child to endure. "It won't stop," she said obstinately, but she lost her ruddy colour because she was not sure.