Barnes glanced again at the brick house. It scarcely seemed possible that so grim a crisis as this could center there. The situation struck home. In some way he felt the responsibility of this unknown young man’s action resting upon his own shoulders. He, too, in a fit of anger had left a father behind him. At that moment Barnes was inspired by an idea--a preposterous idea to be sure, but the present situation was preposterous and so was Barnes himself if his father was to be believed. Furthermore most inspired ideas _are_ preposterous. It depends a good deal on how they turn out whether or not that adjective clings to them forever. But this one made even Barnes catch his breath. He had to look again at the blue sky, at the gold in her hair, at her eyes now misted like Loch Lomond at dawn. “There is just one other course for us,” he announced deliberately. “We might deceive him.” She started back. “I don’t understand.” “How many up there must know of this?” he inquired. “There is only Aunt Philomela,” she managed to answer. “The servants?” “They have heard of Joe but never seen him.” “The neighborhood?” “We moved here after Joe left.” She answered his questions mechanically with no suspicion as to what he was leading. “The boy was young? You say this was five years ago?” “Yes. Yes.” “A lad changes a good deal in that time. Do I resemble him--even remotely?” “You?” She studied him again as though for the first time she had seen him. “Joe,” she faltered, “must be now--about your height.” “That’s enough. A grown man may change in every way except in height.” “But--” “There is only a week or so. I am free. Why couldn’t I play the son? Why,” he smiled at the odd whirligig, “why couldn’t I play the prodigal?” She started back, her hands clasped to her breast, her eyes grown big. “How impossible!” she exclaimed. “And humane,” he suggested. The word caught her attention. “It would be almost that,” she admitted reluctantly. He waited. He did not care to press the point by argument. It was merely a suggestion born of the moment--born of the acute necessity of doing something at once. But she must decide for herself. He had done his best, and however it turned this picture was worth remembering. At first it did not seem to her even a possibility, but once she recovered a little from the shock of her surprise, once she had stripped it of its novelty, and, gazing into his honest eyes, considered it merely as an heroic measure for easing the sick, blind man to his end, she found herself forgetting everything else but the peace it might bring. She, better than he, knew that it _was_ possible. “But,” she exclaimed, “it is such a bit of trickery.” “Nothing else,” he assured her, “or diplomacy if you wish to dignify it.” “If--if we succeeded it would make his last days very pleasant.” “I would do my best.” “But it is such an obligation--” “Let me represent the world at its finest. Let me found the bad news insurance company.”