“I’m all right, Daddy, except that I feel very queer.  It’s all different, some way.  Like the old woman in Mother Goose, I wonder if this can be I.”

There was a long pause.  “Are they going back to-morrow,” he asked, “the doctor and nurse who came down to-day?”

“Yes,” answered Barbara, in a voice that was little more than a whisper.

The old man took her hand in his and leaned over her.  “Dear,” he pleaded, “may I go, too?”

Barbara was startled.  “Have they said anything to you?”

[Sidenote:  Long Waiting]

“No, I was just thinking that I could go with them as well as with Doctor Conrad.  It is so long to wait,” he sighed.

“I cannot bear to have you hurt,” answered Barbara, with a choking sob.

“I know,” he said, “but I bore it for you.  Have you forgotten?”

There was no response in words, but she breathed hard, every shrill respiration fraught with dread.

“Flower of the Dusk,” he pleaded, “may I go?”

“Yes,” she sobbed.  “I have no right to say no.”

“Dear, don’t cry.”  The old man’s voice was as tender as though she had been the merest child.  “The dream is coming true at last—­that you can walk and I can see.  Think what it will mean to us both.  And oh, Barbara, think what it will be to me to see the words your dear mother wrote to you—­to know, from her own hand, that she died loving me.”

[Sidenote:  Systematic Lying]

Barbara suddenly turned cold.  The hand that seemingly had clutched her heart was tearing unmercifully at the tender fibre now.  He would read her mother’s letter and know that his beloved Constance was in love with another; that she took her own life because she could bear it no more.  He would know that they were poor, that the house was shabby, that the pearls and laces and tapestries had all been sold.  He would know, inevitably, that Barbara’s needle had earned their living for many years; he would see, in the dining-room, the pitiful subterfuge of the bit of damask, one knife and fork of solid silver, one fine plate and cup.  Above all, he would know that Barbara herself had systematically lied to him ever since she could talk at all.  And he had a horror of a lie.

“Don’t,” she cried, weakly.  “Don’t go.”

“You promised Barbara,” he said, gently.  Then he added, proudly:  “The Norths never go back on their spoken or written word.  It is in the blood to be true and you have promised.  I shall go to-morrow.”

Barbara cringed and shrank from him.  “Don’t, dear,” he said.  “Your hands are cold.  Let me warm them in mine.  I fear that to-day has been too much for you.”

“I think it has,” she answered.  The words were almost a whisper.

[Sidenote:  If the Dream Comes True]

“Then, don’t try to talk, Barbara.  I will talk to you.  I know how you feel about my going, but it is not necessary, for I do not fear in the least for myself.  I am sure that the dream is coming true, but, if it should not—­why, we can bear it together, dear, as we have borne everything.  The ways of the Everlasting are not our ways, but my faith is very strong.