It was to Philip Harris himself that the decree was given, sitting in the consulting-room of the white hospital—­looking about him with quick eyes.  He had taken out his cheque-book and written a sum that doubled the efficiency of the hospital, and the surgeon had thanked him quietly and laid it aside.  “Everything is being done for the boy, Mr. Harris, that we can do.  But one cannot foresee the result.  He may come through with clear mind—­he may remember the past—­he may remember part of it—­but not the part you want.  But not a breath must disturb him—­that is the one thing clear—­and it is our only chance.”  His eyes were gentle and keen, and Philip Harris straightened himself a little beneath them.  The cheque, laid one side, looked suddenly small and empty... and the great stockyards were a blur in his thought.  Not all of them together, it seemed, could buy the skill that was being given freely for a Greek waif, or hurry by a hair’s breadth the tiny globule of grey matter that held his life.

“Tell me if there is anything I can do,” he said.  He had risen and was facing the surgeon, looking at him like a little boy—­with his hat in his hand.

The surgeon returned the look.  “There will be plenty to do, Mr. Harris.  This, for instance—­” He took up the cheque and looked at it and folded it in slow fingers.  “It will be a big lift to the hospital ... and the boy—­there will be things later—­for the boy—­”

“Private room?” suggested the great man.

“No—­the ward is better.  It gives him interests—­keeps his mind off himself and keeps him from remembering things.  But when he can be moved, he must be in the country—­good food, fresh air, things to amuse him—­he’s a jolly little chap!” The surgeon laughed out.  “Oh, we shall bring him through.”  He added it almost gaily.  “He is so sane—­he is a Greek!”

Philip Harris looked at him, uncomprehending.  “How long before he can be moved?” he asked bluntly.

The surgeon paused—­“two weeks—­three—­perhaps—­I must have him under my eye—­I can’t tell—­” He looked at the great man keenly.  “What he really needs, is someone to come in for awhile everyday—­to talk with him—­or keep quiet with him—­someone with sense.”

“His father?” said Philip Harris.

“Not his father.  It must be someone he has never seen—­no memories to puzzle him—­yet.  But someone that he might have known always—­all his life.”

“That is Miss Stone,” said Philip Harris promptly.

“Does he know Miss Stone?” asked the surgeon.

Philip Harris shook his head.  “No one knows Miss Stone,” he said; “but she is the friendliest person in all the world—­when I get to heaven, I hope Marcia Stone will be there to show me around—­just to take the edge off.”  He smiled a little.

“Well, she is the person we want—­can she come?”

“She sits at home with her hands folded,” said Philip Harris.  He waited a minute.  “She was my little girl’s friend,” he said at last.  “They were always together.