‘There is nothing to repay,’ says Crosby lightly. ‘This is a whim of mine. I believe in this specialist of whom I tell you; many do not. But I have sufficient cause for my belief to ask you to entrust your little son to my care. I tell you honestly it is a whim. If you will gratify it, it will give me pleasure.’ Mr. Barry rises and walks to the window. His gaunt figure stands out clear before it and the room. ‘No, no,’ says he. ‘You cannot put it like that. Do not imagine all your kind words can destroy the real meaning of your kind action. This is the best action, sir, that I have ever known’—his voice shakes—‘and, as I tell you, I can never repay it.... But the child——’ He turns more sharply, as if going to the window merely to adjust the blind, but a slight glance at him has told Crosby that the tears are running down his cheeks. Poor man! Poor father! ‘The child will be safe with me,’ says Crosby earnestly. ‘I know that.’ The Rector turns all at once; his face is now composed, but he looks older, thinner, if that could be. He comes straight up to Crosby. ‘I am a dull old man,’ says he hurriedly. ‘I can’t explain myself. But I know what you are doing—I know—I——’ He hesitates. ‘I would pray for you, but you have no need of prayers.’ ‘We all have need of prayers,’ says Crosby gravely. ‘Mr. Barry, this is an adventure of mine, out of which no man can say how I may come. I take your child from you, but how can I say that I will bring him back to you? If you will pray, pray for him, and for me, too, that we may come back together.’ CHAPTER XLIX. ‘Tears from the depth of some divine despair.’ Thus it was arranged, and when another week has come and gone, the day arrives when Crosby is to carry off little Bonnie to distant lands with a view to his recovery. Susan had of course been told, and there had been a rather painful scene between her and her aunt and her father. ‘Bonnie to be taken from her!’ and so soon. ‘But for his good, Susan.’ She had given in at the last, as was inevitable, with many cruel tearings at her heart, and miserable beliefs that his going now would mean his going for ever. He would never come back. And they would bury him there in that strange land without his Susan to comfort him and soothe his dying moments. It is with great fainting of the spirit that Susan rises to-day—to-day, that will see her little lad carried away from her, no matter in whose kindly hands, to where she cannot know under three days’ post whether he be alive or—— At one part of his dressing (he has never yet since his first illness been dressed by anyone but Susan) she had given way. Of course, the child knew he was going somewhere with Mr. Crosby—he liked Crosby—‘to be made well and strong, my own ducky,’ as Susan had told him, with her heart bursting.