His always modest luncheon reduced itself to a sandwich, he walked to save carfares, cut off two Sunday newspapers, wore a threadbare spring overcoat into the winter.  Then one day he took Miriam to a famous specialist from whom they learned very much what they already knew, but with the advantage of working orders.  The great man told John in brief that it was a bad recovery which might readily become worse.  A change and open air life were imperative; a sea voyage would be best.  If such a change were not made, and soon, he would not be answerable for the consequences.

All this John retold in softened form to Miriam in the waiting room.  “We might as well give it up,” she said resignedly.  “Of course we can’t travel.  We haven’t the money, and you can’t get away.”  With the nearest approach to pride he had ever shown in a nonaesthetic matter John protested that he could get away, and better yet that there was money, five hundred good dollars, more than enough for a glimpse at the Azores and Gibraltar, a hint of rocky Sardinia, a day at Naples, a quiet fortnight on the sunny Genoese Riviera, and then home again by the long sea route.  His thin voice rose as he pictured the voyage.  Even she caught something of his spirits, and as they got off the car near Novelli’s, by a sudden inspiration John said, “Now for being a good girl, and doing what the doctor says, you shall see the most beautiful thing in New York.”

In a minute Novelli was carefully taking the precious thing from its drawer and solemnly unfolding the square of ruby velvet in which it lay.  Miriam saw the rigid Christ, at the left Mary Mother in azure enamel, at the right the Beloved Apostle in Crimson.  From the top God Father sent down the pearly dove through the blue.  Below, a stately pelican offered its bleeding breast to the eager bills of its young.  And it all glowed translucently within its sharp Gothic mouldings.  Behind, the design was simpler—­in enamelled discs the symbols of the evangelists.  St. Lucy’s knuckle lay visible under a crystal lens at the crossing, and surely relic of a saint was seldom encased more splendidly.  Even pathetic Miriam kindled to it.  “Yes, it is the most beautiful thing in New York,” she admitted.  “I suppose it costs a fortune, Mr. Novelli.”  “No, a mere nothing, for it, six hundred dollars.”  “Why, we might almost buy it,” she cried.  “It’s lucky you haven’t saved more, John.  I really believe you would buy it.”  “I’d like to sell it to Mr. Baxter,” said Novelli, “he understands it,” only to be cut short with a brusque, “No, it’s out of our class, but I wanted Mrs. Baxter to see it, and I wanted you to know that she appreciates a fine object as much as I do.”  “Evidently,” said Novelli as they parted.  “I hope she will do me the honour of coming in often; there are few who understand, and whether they buy or not I am always glad to have them in my place.”