Achilles smiled to her—“She come home,” he whispered.
She turned with quick breath and they mounted the stairs—the child still asleep... through the long corridor—to the princess’s room beyond—with its soft lights—and great, silken hangings and canopied bed, open for the night—waiting for Betty Harris.
Achilles bent and laid her down, with lightest touch, and straightened himself. “We let her sleep,” he said gently. “She—very tired.”
They stood looking down—at the brown face and the little, tired lip and sleeping lids.... Their eyes met, and they smiled.... They knew—these two, out of all the world—they knew what it meant—that the child was safe.
And out in the glowing dawn, the great car thundered home, and Betty Harris’s mother looked out with swift eyes.
“See, Phil—the sun is up!” She reached out her hand.
“Sit still, Louie—don’t tremble so—” he said gently. “She is safe now—They have brought her home. She’s there, you know, asleep.” He spoke slowly—as if to a child.... He was gathering up the morning in his heart—this big, harsh, master of men—his little girl was safe—and a common Greek—a man out of the streets—peddling bananas and calling up and down—had made his life worth living. His big, tense mind gripped the fact—and held it. Something seemed speaking to him—out of the east, over there, past the rushing car.... A common Greek.... He had flung his wealth and hammered hard—but somehow this man had loved her—his little girl!
“Phil—?” she said softly.
“Yes, dear?”
“Are we almost home?”