From the open windows of the little grey house came the deadly sweet smell of anaesthetics, heavy with prescience and pain.  It dominated, instantly, all the blended Summer fragrances and brought terror to them both.

“I cannot bear it,” said Ambrose North, miserably.  “I cannot bear to have my baby hurt.”

“She isn’t being hurt now,” answered Roger, with dry lips.  “She’s asleep.”

“It may be the sleep that knows no waking.  If you loved Barbara, you would understand.”

The boy’s senses, exquisitely alive and quivering, merged suddenly into one unspeakable hurt.  If he loved Barbara!  Ah, did he not love her?  What of last night, when he walked up and down in that selfsame road until dawn, alone with the wonder and fear and joy of it, and unutterably dreading the to-morrow that had so swiftly become to-day.

“I was a fool,” muttered Ambrose North.  “I was a fool to give my consent.”

“It was her choice,” the boy reminded him, “and when she walks——­”

“When she walks, it may be in the City Not Made With Hands.  If I had said ‘no,’ we should not be out here now, while she—­” The tears streamed over his wrinkled cheeks and his bowed shoulders shook.

[Sidenote:  All for the Best]

“Don’t,” pleaded Roger.  “It’s all for the best—­it must be all for the best.”

Neither of them saw Eloise approaching as she came up the road from the hotel.  She was in white, as usual, bareheaded, and she carried a white linen parasol.  She went to them, calling out brightly, “Good morning!”

“Who is it?” asked the old man.

“It must be Miss Wynne, I think.”

“What is it?” inquired Eloise, when she joined them.  “What is the matter?”

The blind man could not speak, but he pointed toward the house with a shaking hand.

“It’s Barbara, you know,” said Roger.  “They’re in there—­cutting her.”  The last words were almost a whisper.

[Sidenote:  Allan is There]

“But you mustn’t worry,” cried Eloise.  “Nothing can go wrong.  Why, Allan is there.”

Insensibly her confidence in Allan and the clear ring of her voice relieved the unbearable tension.  Surely, Barbara could not die if Allan were there.

“It’s hard, I know,” Eloise went on, in her cool, even tones, “but there is no doubt about the ending.  Allan is one of the few really great surgeons—­he has done wonderful things.  He has done things that everyone else said were impossible.  Barbara will walk and be as straight and strong as any of us.  Think what it will mean to her after twenty years of helplessness.  How fine it will be to see her without the crutches.”

“I have never minded the crutches,” said Roger.  “I do not want her changed.”

“I cannot see her,” sighed Ambrose North.  “I have never seen my baby.”

“But you’re going to,” Eloise assured him, “for Allan says so, and whatever Allan says is true.”