"Frank, dear, you can't do anything," she ventured at last. "Didn't I tell you she wasn't ready to go back?"
"But she'll have to go—some time."
"Perhaps. But wait. I'm not going to say another word now, nor let you. Wait till you see her—and you shall see her in a day or two—just as soon as you are strong enough. But not another word now." And to make sure that he obeyed, Mrs. Thayer rose laughingly and left the room.
It was four days later that Frank Gleason for the first time ventured downstairs and out into the warm sunshine on the south veranda. Hearing a child's gleeful laugh and a woman's gently remonstrative voice,—a voice that he thought he recognized,—he walked the length of the veranda and rounded the corner.
His slippered feet made no sound, so quite unheralded he came upon the woman and the little girl on the wide veranda steps. Neither one saw him, and he stopped short at the corner, his eyes alight with sudden admiration.
Frank Gleason thought he had never seen a more lovely little girl. Blue-eyed, golden-haired, and rosy-cheeked, she was the typical child-beautiful of picture and romance. A-tiptoe on the topmost step she was reaching one dimpled hand for a gorgeous red geranium blooming in a pot decorating the balustrade. In the other hand, tightly clutched, was another gorgeous blossom, sadly crushed and broken. She was laughing gleefully. Near her, but not attempting to touch her, was a woman the doctor recognized at once. It was Helen—but Helen with a subtle difference of face, eyes, hair, dress, and manner that was at once illuminating but baffling.
"Betty, dear," she was saying gently, "no, no! Mother said not to pick the flowers."
The child turned roguish, willful eyes.
"But I wants to pick 'em."
"Mother can't let you, dear. And see, they are so much prettier growing!"