Always supposing that it suited the boy—­Arthur Philip—­the names under which, according to Zelie, he had been christened in the church of the hill village near Lucca where he was born.  For the care of this innocent, suffering creature became, from the moment of his mother’s death, the dominating thought of Buntingford’s life.  The specialist, who came down before her death, gave the father however little hope of any favourable result from operation.  But he gave a confident opinion that much could be done by that wonderful system of training which modern science and psychology combined have developed for the mentally deficient or idiot child.  For the impression left by the boy on the spectator was never that of genuine idiocy.  It was rather that of an imprisoned soul.  The normal soul seemed somehow to be there; but the barrier between it and the world around it could not be broken through.  By the specialist’s advice, Buntingford’s next step was to appeal to a woman, one of those remarkable women, who, unknown perhaps to more than local or professional fame, are every year bringing the results of an ardent moral and mental research to bear upon the practical tasks of parent and teacher.  This woman, whom we will call Mrs. Delane, combined the brain of a man of science with the passion of motherhood.  She had spent her life in the educational service of a great municipality, varied by constant travel and investigation; and she was now pensioned and retired.  But all over England those who needed her still appealed to her; and she failed no one.  She came down to see his son at Buntingford’s request, and spent some days in watching the child, with Cynthia as an eager learner beside her.

The problem was a rare one.  The boy was a deaf-mute, but not blind.  His very beautiful eyes—­; his father’s eyes—­seemed to be perpetually interrogating the world about him, and perpetually baffled.  He cried—­a monotonous wailing sound—­but he never smiled.  He was capable of throwing all his small possessions into a large basket, and of taking them out again; an operation which he performed endlessly hour after hour; but of purpose, or any action that showed it, he seemed incapable.  He could not place one brick upon another, or slip one Japanese box inside its fellow.  His temper seemed to be always gentle; and in simple matters of daily conduct and habit Zelie had her own ways of getting from him an automatic obedience.  But he heard nothing; and in his pathetic look, however clearly his eyes might seem to be meeting those of a companion, there was no answering intelligence.