Deep in the morning paper of August the fourth, Tom pored long over the problem without attaining any result. The day had begun fine and sunny and, unconsciously, his optimistic temper was in harmony with the weather. So far all had gone well. If only Wallion would come.... Mrs. Toby looked into the study with a smile and said, "I thought I heard you whistle, sir."
"You did," he replied cheerfully. "And how is our patient to-day?"
"I'll go and see," she said, as she withdrew with even a broader smile.
After a short interval the door again opened and Tom cried over his shoulder, "Well, how is she?"
"Very well, thank you," replied a soft, melodious voice.
Tom started and turned round; Elaine Robertson stood before him. She was dressed in a simple gown of black silk and her face, framed by her black hair, was white and transparent as after a long illness. She looked at him gravely, in silence, and put out her hand.
"How can I thank you?" she said.
The blood rose to his cheeks, but he took her hand as a matter of course, and said:
"So you made up your mind to come back to life," Then, after a brief silence on both sides he continued. "I hope Mrs. Toby..."
Then a faint color mantled the girl's cheeks also; she sat down on a chair and said: