Blinded with tears and choked by sobs, Barbara pointed out the line.  That, at least, was true.  The old man raised it to his lips as a monk might raise his crucifix when kneeling in penitential prayer.

“I keep it always near me,” he said, softly.  “I shall keep it until I can see.”

* * * * *

Long after he had gone to bed, Barbara lay trembling.  The problem that had risen up before her without warning seemed to have no possible solution.  If he recovered his sight, she could not keep him from knowing their poverty.  One swift glance would show him all—­and destroy his faith in her.  That was unavoidable.  But—­need he know that the dead had deceived him too?

The innate sex-loyalty, which is strong in all women who are really fine, asserted itself in full power now.  It was not only the desire to save her father pain that made Barbara resolve, at any cost, to keep the betraying letter from him.  It was also the secret loyalty, not of a child to an unknown mother, but of woman to woman—­of sex to sex.

[Sidenote:  To-Day and To-Morrow]

The house was very still.  Outside, a belated cricket kept up his cheery fiddling as he fared to his hidden home.  Sometimes a leaf fell and rustled down the road ahead of a vagrant wind.  The clock ticked monotonously.  Second by second and minute by minute, To-Morrow advanced upon Barbara; that To-Morrow which must be made surely right by the deeds of To-Day.

“If I could go,” murmured Barbara.  She was free of the plaster and she could move about in bed easily.  Ironically enough, her crutches leaned against the farther wall, in sight but as completely out of reach as though they were in the next room.

Barbara sat up in bed and, cautiously, placed her two tiny bare feet on the floor.  With great effort, she stood up, sustained by a boundless hope.  She discovered that she could stand, even though she ached miserably, but when she attempted to move, she fell back upon the bed.  She could not walk a step.

[Sidenote:  Vanishing Hopes]

Faint with fear and pain, she got back into bed.  She knew, now, all that the red-haired young man had refused to tell her.  He was too kind to say that she was not to walk, after all.  He was leaving it for Doctor Conrad—­or Eloise.

Objects in the room danced before her mockingly.  Her crutches were veiled by a mist—­those friendly crutches which had served her so well and were now out of her reach.  But Barbara had no time for self-pity.  The dominant need of the hour was pressing heavily upon her.

With icy, shaking fingers, Barbara rang her bell.  Presently Miriam came in, attired in a flannel dressing-gown which was hopelessly unbecoming.  Barbara was moved to hysterical laughter, but she bit her lips.

“Aunt Miriam,” she said, trying to keep her voice even, “father has a letter of mine in his coat pocket which I should like to read again to-night.  Will you bring me his coat, please?”