The long silence spread between them. The bird sang in the wood—a clear, mid-summer call.
The boy listened, and turned his eyes. “A little girl—with you then,” he said softly, “in carriage. Where is little girl?” It was the first question he had asked.
She swayed a little—in her grey softness—but she did not look at him, but at the river. “You would like that little girl, Alcie,” she said quietly. “We all love her. Some day you shall see her—only get well and you shall see her.” It was a soft word, like a cry, and the boy looked at her with curious eyes.
“I get well,” he said contentedly, “I see her.” He slipped a hand under his cheek and lay quiet.
“Doing well,” said the surgeon, “couldn’t be better.” He had run down for the day and was to go back in the cool evening.
He stood with Philip Harris on the terrace overlooking the river. Harris threw away a stump of cigar. “You think he will make complete recovery?”
“No doubt of it,” said the surgeon promptly.
“Then—?” Philip Harris turned a quick eye on him.
But the man shook his head. “Wait,” he said—and again, slowly, “wait.”
The darkness closed around them, but they did not break it. A faint questioning honk sounded, and Philip Harris turned. “The car is ready,” he said, “to take you back.”