A grave, silent young man whose demeanour was oddly at variance with his red hair was there also.  He had just come and it seemed that he was a doctor.  Barbara had heard his name but could not remember it.  There were also two young women in blue and white striped uniforms which were very neat and becoming.  They wore white caps and smiled at Barbara.  She had heard their names, too, but she had forgotten.

None of them seemed to mind the heavy odour which oppressed her so.  She opened the windows in the Tower and the cool air came in from the blue sea, but it changed nothing.

“Come, Boy,” she called across the intervening mist.  “Let’s go up to the cupola and ring all the golden bells.”

He did not seem to hear, so she called again, and again, but there was no response.  It was the first time he had failed to answer her, and it made her angry.

“Then,” cried Barbara, shrilly, “if you don’t want to come, you needn’t, so there.  But I’m going.  Do you hear?  I’m going.  I’m going up to ring those bells if I have to go alone.”

Still, the Boy did not answer, and Barbara, her heart warm with resentment, began to climb the winding stairs.  She did not hurry, for pictures of castles, towers, and beautiful ladies were woven in the tapestry that lined the walls.

She came, at last, to the highest landing.  There was only one short flight between her and the cupola.  The clear glass arches were dazzling in the sun and the golden bells swayed temptingly.  But a blinding, overwhelming fog drifted in from the sea, and she was afraid to move by so much as a step.  She turned to go back, and fell, down—­down—­down—­into what seemed eternity.

[Sidenote:  The Clouds Lift]

Before long, the cloud began to lift.  She could see a vague suggestion of blue and white through it now.  The man with the red hair was talking, loudly and unconcernedly, to a tall man beside him whose face was obscured by the mist.  The voices beat upon Barbara’s ears with physical pain.  She tried to speak, to ask them to stop, but the words would not come.  Then she raised her hand, weakly, and silence came upon the room.

Out of the fog rose Doctor Allan Conrad.  He was tired and there was a strained look about his eyes, but he smiled encouragingly.  He leaned over her and she smiled, very faintly, back at him.

“Brave little girl,” he said.  “It’s all right now.  All we ever hoped for is coming very soon.”  Then he went out, and she closed her eyes.  When she was again conscious of her surroundings, it was the next day, but she thought she had been asleep only a few minutes.

At first there was numbness of mind and body.  Then, with every heart-beat and throb by throb, came unbearable agony.  A trembling old hand strayed across her face and her father’s voice, deep with love and longing, whispered:  “Barbara, my darling!  Does it hurt you now?”

“Just a little, Daddy, but it won’t last long.  I’ll be better very soon.”