“But how do you feel, dear?”

“I feel,” said Mr. Stone, “able to dictate what I have already written—­not more.  Has she come?”

“Not yet; but I will go and find her if you like.”

Mr. Stone looked at his daughter wistfully.

“That will be taking up your time,” he said.

Bianca answered:  “My time is of no consequence.”

Mr. Stone stretched his hands out to the fire.

“I will not consent,” he said, evidently to himself, “to be a drag on anyone.  If that has come, then I must go!”

Bianca, placing herself beside him on her knees, pressed her hot cheek against his temple.

“But it has not come, Dad.”

“I hope not,” said Mr. Stone.  “I wish to end my book first.”

The sudden grim coherence of his last two sayings terrified Bianca more than all his feverish, utterances.

“I rely on your sitting quite still,” she said, “while I go and find her.”  And with a feeling in her heart as though two hands had seized and were pulling it asunder, she went out.

Some half-hour later Hilary slipped quietly in, and stood watching at the door.  Mr. Stone, seated on the very verge of his armchair, with his hands on its arms, was slowly rising to his feet, and slowly falling back again, not once, but many times, practising a standing posture.  As Hilary came into his line of sight, he said: 

“I have succeeded twice.”

“I am very glad,” said Hilary.  “Won’t you rest now, sir?”

“It is my knees,” said Mr. Stone.  “She has gone to find her.”

Hilary heard those words with bewilderment, and, sitting down on the other chair, waited.

“I have fancied,” said Mr. Stone, looking at him wistfully, “that when we pass away from life we may become the wind.  Is that your opinion?”

“It is a new thought to me,” said Hilary.

“It is not tenable,” said Mr. Stone.  “But it is restful.  The wind is everywhere and nowhere, and nothing can be hidden from it.  When I have missed that little girl, I have tried, in a sense, to become the wind; but I have found it difficult.”

His eyes left Hilary’s face, whose mournful smile he had not noticed, and fixed themselves on the bright fire. “‘In those days,"’ he said, “’men’s relation to the eternal airs was the relation of a billion little separate draughts blowing against the south-west wind.  They did not wish to merge themselves in that soft, moon-uttered sigh, but blew in its face through crevices, and cracks, and keyholes, and were borne away on the pellucid journey, whistling out their protests.’”

He again tried to stand, evidently wishing to get to his desk to record this thought, but, failing, looked painfully at Hilary.  He seemed about to ask for something, but checked himself.

“If I practise hard,” he murmured, “I shall master it.”

Hilary rose and brought him paper and a pencil.  In bending, he saw that Mr. Stone’s eyes were dim with moisture.  This sight affected him so that he was glad to turn away and fetch a book to form a writing-pad.