As he moves she lifts her head, and holds out to him the one hand free. ‘Mr. Crosby,’ whispers she, with a dreary attempt at a smile, ‘I don’t believe I have even said so much as “How d’ye do?” to you. I certainly have not welcomed you back——’ ‘No,’ says Crosby, ‘not one word of welcome. But how could I expect it at such a time?’ ‘And, any way, I need not say it,’ says she, her eyes filling. ‘You know you are welcome.’ ‘To you, Susan?’ ‘To me? You know—you must know that,’ says Susan, with the sweetest friendliness. * * * * * Crosby goes straight into Mr. Barry’s study, where he finds the Rector immersed in his books and notes, and there makes clear to him the subject that only five minutes ago had become clear to himself. Yet it is so cleverly described to Mr. Barry that the latter might well be excused for believing that it had been thought out for many days, and carefully digested before being laid before him. The fact was that he, Crosby, was going to Germany almost immediately—certainly next week—though even more certainly he had not thought of going to Germany—a country he detested—so late as this morning. There were wonderful baths there, he said, and a specialist for rheumatic people. He made the specialist the least part of the argument, though in reality it was the greatest, as the professor he had in mind (who had come to his mind during his interview with Susan, so sadly miserable with that child upon her knee) was one of the most distinguished men alive where rheumatic affections were in question. If Mr. Barry would trust his little son to him, would let him take Bonnie to these wonderful life-restoring baths and to this even more wonderful specialist, he would regard it as a great privilege, as a mark of friendship, of esteem. Poor Mr. Barry! He sank back in his chair, and covered his eyes with his hands. How could he take from a perfect—well, a comparative stranger—so great a boon? All the old instincts, the pride of a good race, fought with him; but with the old instincts and the pride love fought, and gained the victory. The child—had he the right to refuse life to the child because of his senseless shrinking from obligations to another? He asked himself this question over and over again, whilst Crosby, who sincerely pitied him because he understood him, waited. And then all at once the father saw the child bathed in sweat and moaning with awful pain, and human nature prevailed. He gave in. * * * * * ‘I can never repay you, Mr. Crosby,’ he said, in a shortened tone, standing tall and grim and crushed behind his table, his sharp aristocratic features intensified by the shabbiness of the furniture around him.