He was silent awhile; then:  “All right,” he said.  “I’ll go this afternoon.”

His voice was dead level, wholly emotionless, but for a few seconds his grip taxed her endurance to the utmost.  Then, abruptly, it relaxed.

He bent his black head and kissed the nervous little hands that were clasped upon his own.

“Don’t you fret now!” he said, with an odd kindness that was to her more pathetic than any appeal for sympathy.  “You’ve got enough burdens of your own to bear without shouldering ours.  How is Jeanie?”

Mrs. Lorimer choked down a sob.  “She isn’t a bit well.  She has a cold and such a racking cough.  I’m keeping her in bed.”

“I’m awfully sorry,” said Piers steadily.  “Give her my love!  And look here, when Avery is well enough, let them go away together, will you?  It will do them both good.”

“It’s dear of you to think of it,” said Mrs. Lorimer wistfully.  “Yes, it did do Jeanie good in the autumn.  But Avery—­”

“It will do Avery good too,” he said.  “She can take that cottage at Stanbury Cliffs for the whole summer if she likes.  Tell her to!  And look here!  Will you take her a message from me?”

“A written message?” asked Mrs. Lorimer.

He pulled out a pocket-book.  “Six words,” he said.  He scrawled them, tore out the leaf and gave it to her, holding it up before her eyes that she might read it.

“Good-bye till you send for me.  Piers.”

“That’s all,” he said.  “Thanks awfully.  She’ll understand that.  And now—­I say, you’re not going to cry any more, are you?” He shook his head at her with a laugh in his eyes.  “You really mustn’t.  You’re much too tender-hearted.  I say, it was a pity about the baby, what?  I thought the baby might have made a difference.  But it’ll be all the same presently.  She’s wanting me really.  I’ve known that ever since that night—­you know—­ever since I held her in my arms.”

He spoke with absolute simplicity.  She had never liked him better than at that moment.  His boyishness had utterly disarmed her, and not till later did she realize how completely he had masked his soul therewith.

She parted with him with a full heart, and had a strictly private little cry on his account ere she returned to Avery.  Poor lad!  Poor lad!  And when he wasn’t smiling, he did look so ill!

The same thought struck Crowther a few hours later as Piers sat with him in his room, and devoted himself with considerable adroitness to making his fire burn through as quickly as possible, the while he briefly informed him that his wife was considered practically out of danger and had no further use for him for the present.

Crowther’s heart sank at the news though he gave no sign of dismay.

“What do you think of doing, sonny?” he asked, after a moment.

“I?  Why, what is there for me to do?” Piers glanced round momentarily.  “I wonder what you’d do, Crowther,” he said, with a smile that was scarcely gay.