Luclarion was only gone three minutes.  Then she came back, and led Mr. Oldways up three flights of stairs.

“It’s a long climb, clear from the door,” she said.

“I can climb,” said Mr. Oldways, curtly.

“I didn’t expect it was going to stump you,” said Luclarion, just as short in her turn.  “But I thought I’d be polite enough to mention it.”

There came a queer little chuckling wheeze from somewhere, like a whispered imitation of the first few short pants of a steam-engine:  that was Uncle Titus, laughing to himself.

Luclarion looked down behind her, out of the corner of her eyes, as she turned the landing.  Uncle Titus’s head was dropped between his shoulders, and his shoulders were shaking up and down.  But he kept his big stick clutched by the middle, in one hand, and the other just touched the rail as he went up.  Uncle Titus was not out of breath.  Not he.  He could laugh and climb.

Desire was sitting up for a little while, before going to bed again for the night.  There was a low gas-light burning by the dressing-table, ready to turn up when the twilight should be gone; and a street lamp, just lighted, shone across into the room.  Luclarion had been sitting with her, and her gray knitting-work lay upon the chair that she offered when she had picked it up, to Mr. Oldways.  Then she went away and left them to their talk.

“Mrs. Ripwinkley has been spry about it,” she said to herself, going softly down the stairs.  “But she always was spry.”

“You’re getting well, I hope,” said Uncle Titus, seating himself, after he had given Desire his hand.

“I suppose so,” said Desire, quietly.  “That was why I wanted to see you.  I want to know what I ought to do when I am well.”

“How can I tell?” asked Uncle Titus, bluntly.

“Better than anybody I can ask.  The rest are all too sympathizing.  I am afraid they would tell me as I wish they should.”

“And I don’t sympathize?  Well, I don’t think I do much.  I haven’t been used to it.”

“You have been used to think what was right; and I believe you would tell me truly.  I want to know whether I ought to go to Europe with my mother.”

“Why not?  Doesn’t she want you to go?”—­and Uncle Titus was sharp this time.

“I suppose so; that is, I suppose she expects I will.  But I don’t know that I should be much except a hindrance to her.  And I think I could stay and do something here, in some way.  Uncle Titus, I hate the thought of going to Europe!  Now, don’t you suppose I ought to go?”

“Why do you hate the thought of going to Europe?” asked Uncle Titus, regarding her with keenness.

“Because I have never done anything real in all my life!” broke forth Desire.  “And this seems only plastering and patching what can’t be patched.  I want to take hold of something.  I don’t want to float round any more.  What is there left of all we have ever tried to do, all these years?  Of all my poor father’s work, what is there to show for it now?  It has all melted away as fast as it came, like snow on pavements; and now his life has melted away; and I feel as if we had never been anything real to each other!  Uncle Titus, I can’t tell you how I feel!”