"Thanks, dad!" Only the sudden mist in his eyes and the shake in his voice showed how really moved Burke was. "But--Helen," he stammered then. "Will be better off without you--for a time." "And--I?" "Will be better off without her--for the same time. While I--shall be, oh, so infinitely better off _with_ you. Ah, son, but I've missed you so!" It was the same longing cry that had gone straight to Burke's heart a few minutes before. "You'll come?" There was a tense silence. Burke's face plainly showed the struggle within him. A moment more, and he spoke. "Dad, I'll have to think it out," he temporized brokenly. "I'll let you know in the morning." "Good!" If John Denby was disappointed, he did not show it. "We'll let it go till morning, then. Meanwhile, it can do no harm to look at these, however," he smiled, with a wave of his hand toward the maps and time-tables. "No, of course not," acquiesced Burke promptly, relieved that his father agreed so willingly to the delay. Half an hour later he went upstairs to his old room to bed. It was a fine old room. He had forgotten that a bedroom could be so large--and so convenient. Benton, plainly, had been there. Also, plainly, his hand had not lost its cunning, nor his brain the memory of how Master Burke "liked things." The arrangement of the lights, the glass of milk by his bed, the turned-down spread and sheet, the latest magazine ready to his hand--even the size and number of towels in his bathroom testified to Benton's loving hand and good memory. With a sigh that was almost a sob Burke dropped himself into a chair and looked about him. It was all so peaceful, so restful, so comfortable. And it was so quiet. He had forgotten that a room could be so quiet. In spite of his weariness, Burke's preparations for bed were both lengthy and luxurious--he had forgotten what absolute content lay in plenty of space, towels, and hot water, to say nothing of soap that was in its proper place, and did not have to be fished out of a baby-basket or a kitchen sink. Burke did not intend to go to sleep at once. He intended first to settle in his mind what he would do with this proposition of his father's. He would have to refuse it, of course. It would not do. Still, he ought to give it proper consideration for dad's sake. That much was due dad. He stretched himself luxuriously on the bed (he had forgotten that a bed could be so soft and so "just right") and began to think. But the next thing he knew he was waking up. His first feeling was a half-unconscious but delightful sensation of physical comfort. His next a dazed surprise as his slowly opened eyes encountered shapes and shadows and arc-light beams on the walls and ceiling quite unlike those in his Dale Street bedroom. Then instantly came a vague but poignant impression that "something had happened," followed almost as quickly by full realization.