[Sidenote:  If the Dream Comes True]

“If the dream comes true, as I hope and believe it will, you and I will go away, dear, and see the world.  We shall go to Europe and Egypt and Japan and India, and to the Southern islands, to Greece and Constantinople—­I have planned it all.  Aunt Miriam can stay here, or we will take her with us, just as you choose.  When you can walk, Barbara, and I can see, I shall draw a large check, and we will start at the first possible moment.  The greatest blessing of money, I think, is the opportunity it gives for travel.  I have been glad, too, so many times, that we are able to afford all these doctors and nurses.  Think of the poor people who must suffer always because they cannot command services which are necessarily high-priced.”

Barbara’s senses reeled and the cold, steel fingers clutched more closely at the aching fibre of her heart.  Until this moment, she had not thought of the financial aspects of her situation—­it had not occurred to her that Doctor Conrad and the blue and white nurses and even the red-haired young man would expect to be paid.  And when her father went to the hospital—­“I shall have to sew night and day all the rest of my life,” she thought, “and, even then, die in debt.”

[Sidenote:  The Lie]

But over and above and beyond it all stood the Lie, that had lived in her house for twenty years and more and was now to be cast out, if—­Barbara’s heart stood still in horror because, for the merest fraction of an instant, she had dared to hope that her father might never see again.

“I could not have gone alone,” the old man was saying, “and even if I could, I should never have left you, but now, I think, the time is coming.  I have dreamed all my life of the strange countries beyond the sea, and longed to go.  Your dear mother and I were going, in a little while, but—­” His lips quivered and he stopped abruptly.

[Sidenote:  Three Things]

“What would you see, Daddy, if you had your choice?  Tell me the three things in the world that you most want to see.”  With supreme effort, Barbara put self aside and endeavoured to lead him back to happier things.

“Three things?” he repeated.  “Let me think.  If God should give me back my sight for the space of half an hour before I died, I should choose to see, first, your dear mother’s letter in which she says that she died loving me; next, your mother herself as she was just before she died, and then, dear, my Flower of the Dusk—­my baby whom I never have seen.  Perhaps,” he added, thoughtfully, “perhaps I should rather see you than Constance, for, in a very little while, I should meet her past the sunset, where she has waited so long for me.  But the letter would come first, Barbara—­can you understand?”

“Yes,” she breathed, “I understand.”

The hope in her heart died.  She could not ask for the letter.  He took it from his pocket as though it were a jewel of great price.  “Put my finger on the words that say, ‘I love him still.’”