The old man had leaned over her and kissed her twice.  “Flower of the Dusk,” he had said, with surpassing tenderness, “when I come back, the dusk will change to dawn.  If the darkness lifts I shall see you first, and so, for a little while, good-bye.”

He had gone downstairs quickly and lightly, as one who is glad to go.  When she last saw him, he was walking ahead of the young doctor and the nurse, straight and eager and almost young again, sustained by the same boundless hope that had given Barbara strength for her ordeal.

[Sidenote:  Dr. Conrad Comes Again]

It was almost two weeks before Doctor Conrad came down.  He had been obliged, lately, to miss several Sundays with Eloise.  When Aunt Miriam came and told Barbara that he was downstairs, she felt a sudden, sharp pang of disappointment, not for herself, but for him.  He had tried so hard and done so much, and to know that he had failed—­ Even in the face of her own bitter outlook, she could be sorry for him.

But, when he came in, he did not seem to need anyone’s sympathy.  He was so magnificently young and strong, so full of splendid vitality.  Barbara’s failing courage rose in answer to him and she smiled as she offered a frail little hand.

“Well, little girl,” said Doctor Allan, sitting down on the bed beside her, “how goes it?”

“Tell me about father,” begged Barbara, ignoring the question.

[Sidenote:  The Main Trouble]

“Father is doing very well,” Allan assured her.  “He has recovered nicely from the operation and we have strong hope for the sight of one eye if not for both.  I can almost promise you partial restoration, but, of course, it is impossible to tell definitely until later.  His heart is very weak—­that seems to be the main trouble now.”

Barbara lay very still, with her eyes closed.

“Aren’t you glad?” asked Doctor Allan, in surprise.

“Yes,” answered Barbara, with difficulty.  “Indeed, yes.  I was just thinking.”

“A penny for your thoughts,” he smiled.

“Are they going to take off the bandages there at the hospital?”

“Why, yes—­of course.”

“They mustn’t!” cried Barbara, sitting up in bed.  “Or, if they have to, I must go there.  Doctor Conrad, I must see my father before he regains his sight.”

“Why?” asked Allan.  “Don’t cry, little girl—­tell me.”

His voice was very soothing, and, as he spoke, he took hold of her fluttering hands.  The strong clasp was friendly and reassuring.

“Because I’ve lied to him,” sobbed Barbara.

“I’ve made him think we were rich instead of poor.  He doesn’t know that I’ve earned our living all these years by sewing, and that we’ve had to sell everything that anybody would buy—­the pearls and laces and everything.  He hates a lie and he’ll despise me.  It will break his heart.  I’d rather tell him myself than to have him find it out.”