“But you never prescribed this strange thing before.”

He smiled.  “I’ve been learning some things out here, Sue, that I never learned before.  One of them is how near God is to a little child.”

“You’ve learned that—­of your neighbours?” Her accent was indescribable.

“Of my neighbours—­and friends.”

It was time for her to go.  He helped her into her great fur coat and himself fastened it in place.  When she was ready she turned from the window from which she had tried in vain to see her surroundings, and threw at her brother a question which seemed to take him unawares.

“Don, do you know anything about Helena these days?”

Though his face did not change, something about him suggested the mental bracing of himself for a shock.  He shook his head.

“She’s dropped everything she used to care for.  Nobody knows why.  Her mother’s in despair about her—­you know what a society leader Mrs. Forrest has always been.  She can’t understand Helena—­nor can anybody.”

“She’s not ill?”

“Apparently not; she’s as wonderful to look at as ever, when one meets her—­which one seldom does.  The girls say she walks miles every day, so she must be well in body, though even that doesn’t assure Mrs. Forrest.  I thought, possibly, you might know.  You and Helena used to be such friends.”

“We are still, I hope.”

His sister’s eyes were not easily to be deceived, and they were positive they saw pain in the eyes which met her own.

“Don,” she said softly, “may I ask you one question?”

“Please don’t.”

“When you were a little boy, and you got hurt in any way, you used to run away and hide.  Are you—­hiding now?”

His eyes grew dark with sudden anger, but he replied with self-control: 

“You will have to think what you like about that, Sue.  If that is the way the thing looks to you—­so be it!”

The sound of the returning car made Mrs. Breckenridge speak hurriedly: 

“I didn’t mean to be unkind, Don boy.  Nobody knows better than I that you are no coward.  Only—­only—­you know an ascetic denies himself things that he needn’t.  And—­you are an ascetic!”

“Can I never convince you of your mistake about that?” he answered; and now his lips smiled again, a little stiffly.

She embraced him once more, stopped to say beseechingly, “You won’t keep that baby here, will you, Don?” and, receiving his assurance that he would consult with his neighbours in the morning as to the welfare of the foundling, took her departure.

Left alone Brown went back into the quiet room.  The baby was stirring among its wrappings.  Bim, who had roused himself to see the visitor off, came and poked his nose into the bundle.

“We never know what’s coming, Bim, do we?” asked Brown of his companion.  “Sometimes it’s what we want, and sometimes not.  But—­if we are to teach others we must be taught ourselves, Bim.  And that’s what’s happening now.”