With these words the vicar took a chastened leave. It was clear that nothing was to be hoped for in this quarter. Bitterly disappointed, but more than ever determined to do his duty in a matter which promised to become increasingly difficult, the vicar shook Brandon gently by the hand and left the room. In the large Tudor hall, with its stone flags, old oak and rare tapestry, he came suddenly upon his niece. Millicent Brandon looked too girlish to be the mother of the two lusty creatures whom she was helping to fit together a picture puzzle which had been spread out on a table. Tall, slight, a picture of vivid health, she had a charming prettiness of an unusual kind. And in the clear, long-lashed eyes was an eagerness, an intensity of life which the elf-like Babs and the sturdy, yellow-headed Joskin shared with her. Even the vicar, who noticed so little, was struck by the force of the contrast between this rich vitality and the broken man whom he had left a moment ago. It was clear, however, that above Millicent Brandon’s high spirit hovered the dark shadow which continually haunted her. Behind the surface gayety was an anxiety which never slept, a gnawing fear that no preoccupation could allay. The solid, sensible vicar was liked and respected by women, and he now received the affectionate greeting of his niece, who was genuinely pleased to see him. But her tone had much solicitude. “Well, Uncle Tom,” was her eager question, “what do you think of Gervase?” The vicar did not answer at once, but drew in his lips a little, in the manner of a cautious physician with a reputation for absolute and fearless honesty. “He seems cheerful,” he said. “Everybody thinks he keeps up in the most wonderful way. And do you know, he has begun to read again? A fortnight ago he seemed hardly able to bear the thought of a book; he couldn’t be got to look at a newspaper or even to listen to one. But that is now a thing of the past. All the old interest is coming back. Last night I read Pascal to him for nearly an hour, and he followed it the whole time with the closest attention.” “I hope you had the doctor’s permission,” said the vicar with a frown. “Oh, yes. Both Dr. Shrubb and Dr. Joliffe are very pleased. Dr. Shrubb was here yesterday. He thinks it is the most hopeful sign we have yet had.” “I am very glad indeed to hear it,” said the vicar with a puzzled face. “Of course he can promise nothing--absolutely nothing, but he thinks it is a great thing for the mind to be aroused. A fortnight ago Gervase couldn’t be induced to take an interest in anything. And now he listens to Pascal and reads the _Times_.” The vicar’s frown grew more perplexed. “And the doctors are pleased?” “Oh, yes.” “How do they account for the change?” “They give no explanation, but I have a theory that in a sort of way the person who is really responsible for it--I know you’ll laugh at me--is that dear fellow, John Smith.” “Oh, indeed,” said the vicar in a hard, dry voice.