"Her mother and sister continued their knitting, asking questions about you now and then, apparently taking no notice of her. My monologue in praise of you became a triangular discussion; and all the while the pony was cutting up the marl drive with impatience, and Shiela never stirred. "Then Cecile said to me quite naturally: 'I wish Garry were here.' And, looking up at Shiela, she added: 'Don't you?' "For a second or two there was absolute silence; and then Shiela said to me: "'Does he know I have been ill?' "'Of course,' I said, 'and he knows that you are now perfectly well.' "She turned slowly to her mother: 'Am I?' she asked. "'What, dear?' "'Perfectly well.' "'Certainly,' replied her mother, laughing; 'well enough to break your neck on that horrid, jigging, little pony. If Garry wants to see you alive he'd better come pretty soon--' "'Come _here?_' "We all looked up at her. Oh, Garry! For a moment something came into her eyes that I never want to see there again--and, please God, never shall!--a momentary light like a pale afterglow of terror. "It went as it came; and the colour returned to her face. "'Is he coming here?' she asked calmly. "'Yes,' I made bold to say. "'When?' "'In a few days, I hope.' "She said nothing more about you, nor did I. A moment later she sent away her pony and went indoors. "After luncheon I found her lying in the hammock in the _patio_, eyes closed as though asleep. She lay there all the afternoon--an unusual thing for her. "Toward sundown, as I was entering my chair to go back to the hotel, she came out and stood beside the chair looking at me as though she was trying to say something. I don't know what it might have been, for she never said it, but she bent down and laid her cheek against mine for a moment, and drew my head around, searching my eyes. "I don't know whether I was right or wrong, but I said: 'There is no one to compare with you, Shiela, in your new incarnation of health and youth. I never before knew you; I don't think you ever before knew yourself.' "'Not entirely,' she said. "'Do you now?' "'I think so.... May I ask you something?' "I nodded, smiling. "'Then--there is only one thing I care for now--to'--she looked up toward the house--'to make them contented--to make up to them what I can for--for all that I failed in. Do you understand?' "'Yes,' I said, 'you sweet thing.' And gave her a little hug, adding: 'And that's why I'm going to write a letter to-night--at your mother's desire--and my own.' "She said nothing more; my chair rolled away; and here's the letter that I told her I meant to write. "'Now, dear, come if you think best. I don't know of any reason why you should not come; if you know of any you must act on your own responsibility.'