Hollyer didn’t count on Nurse Eden’s way. But he thought—something stronger than himself compelled him to think—that his mother would not die. And each hour showed her slowly coming back. Under his eyes the miracle was being accomplished. At midnight her breathing and temperature and pulse were normal; and by noon of the next day even Ransome was convinced. He wouldn’t swear to the miracle, but whatever Nurse Eden had or had not done, he believed Mrs. Hollyer would recover. Hollyer not only believed it, but he was certain, as Nurse Eden was certain. She came to him, radiant with certainty, and told him that his mind could be at rest now. But his mind was not at rest. It had only rested while he doubted, as if doubt absolved him from knowledge of some secret that he could not face. With the first moment of certainty he was aware of it. It was given to him in physical sensations, a weight and pain about his heart that did not lie. In a flash he saw himself back in his old life of dependence and frustration. There would be no Effie sitting with him in the house, no Effie running up and down the stairs. He would not sleep with Effie in the big, white bed. They would grow old, wanting each other. He tried to jerk his mouth into a smile, but it had stiffened. It opened, gasping, as his muffled heart-beats choked him. He went upstairs to his mother’s room. She was sitting up in bed, clear-eyed, almost alert, and she turned her face to him as he entered. “I don’t know how it is,” she said. “I thought I was going, but there’s something that won’t let me go. It keeps on pulling me back and back.” (Nurse Eden looked at him.) “Is it you, Wilfrid?” He knelt down and buried his face in the bedclothes by her side. His sobs shook the mattress. The nurse took him by the arm; he got up and stared at her as if dazed and drunk with grief. She led him from the room. “You’re upsetting her,” she said. “Don’t come back till you’ve pulled yourself together.” When he went back his mother was sleeping calmly. Hollyer and the nurse withdrew from the bedside to the window and talked there in low voices. “Did you hear what she said. Nurse?” “Yes. We can get her through, between us, if we make up our minds she’s to live. Think of what she was yesterday.” “But do you think we ought to? I don’t want her brought back to suffer.” “She isn’t going to suffer. There’s no reason why she shouldn’t be as well as ever. If you want her to live.” “Want her? Of course I want her to live.” “I know you do. But you must get rid of your fear.” “My fear?” “Your fear of her dying.” “Do you think my fear could—could make her?” “I know it could. Make up your mind with me that she’s going to get well.” “Supposing she wants to go? Supposing she’s fighting against us all the time?”