There was still something to be done, and Peter did it. He took his brother up in his arms, realizing that he was, in a way, paralyzed, carried him to a chair that was out of the ring of light and sat him down. "Get yourself in hand, quick," he whispered. "Quick, now!" And Graham, strengthened by his brother's vitality, forced himself into some sort of control. Striding to the fireplace, Peter stood there waiting for his father, with a strange pain going through his body. He felt just as though he had been told that Graham, his best pal and dear brother, had had an appalling accident and might not live. The Doctor's voice, as he gave directions to a servant, came nearer and nearer. VI With his hand on the handle of the door, the Doctor paused. "I want you to call me to-morrow at half-past-seven, Alfred. Don't forget. I have a busy day. Good-night." The two boys watched him come into the room. His head was high and there was a little smile round his usually straight mouth. He walked with a sort of sprightliness, as though moving to music. He looked extraordinarily young and exhilarated. He saw what was to him a most unusual sight in that quiet, lonely work-room. He was surprised into an exclamation of great pleasure, and he quickened his pace until he stood between his sons. Graham got up and put on a nervous, polite smile. "This's what I most wanted," said the Doctor,--"my two boys waiting for me here in this room. I can't tell you--I can't tell you, Peter, and Graham, how often, how strongly, how eagerly I've wished to see you where you are now. I can't tell you how I've longed to have you here after my meetings, to tell you how I'm getting on, moving things forward, and to ask you share in my successes. My dear Peter--my dear Graham." It was pitiful. The strange, almost incoherent outbreak of the shy man nearly made Peter burst into tears. He would almost rather his father had treated them coldly and with raised eyebrows. His present attitude--his unhidden joy--his eager, and even wistful welcome, had in it something of tragedy, because it showed all the waste of years during which the sympathy and the complete, necessary and beautiful understanding of these three might have been welded into one great, insurmountable rock. The Doctor, with an obvious desire to play host,--an intuition which again touched Peter deeply,--went quickly to a little chest which stood in a corner of the room. "What will you have?" he asked anxiously. "I've got a very good cigar here, or cigarettes if you would like them better. Let me see! What do you smoke, Peter?" "He doesn't even know what I smoke," thought Peter. "A pipe," he said. "Oh, yes, yes! Well, this is generally said to be a very good mixture. Try some." He gave a jar of tobacco to Peter. "These are nice, though perhaps they are a little too dry." And he extended a box of cigars to Graham. The boy helped himself, trying to keep his hand steady. "Thank you," he said.