But he did not see—­his gaze was on the picture—­and he took a step—­and looked—­and drew his hand across his eyes with a little breath.  Then he reached out his hands, “—­I—­see—­her,” he said swiftly.  “She look at me—­on ground—­she cry—­” His face worked a minute—­then it grew quiet and he turned it toward her.  “I see—­her,” he repeated slowly.

She had seized his shoulder and was questioning him, forcing him toward the picture, calling the words into his ear as if he were deaf, or far away—­and the boy responded slowly—­truly, each word lighting up the scene for her—­the great car crashing upon him, the overthrow of his cart, the scattered fruit on the ground, and the Greek boy crawling toward it—­thrust forward as the car pushed by—­and his swift, upward glance of the girl’s face as it flashed past, and of the men holding her between them—­“She cry,” he said—­as if he saw the vision again before him.  “She cry—­and they stop—­hands.”  He placed both hands across his mouth, shutting out words and cry.

And the mother fondled him and cried to him and questioned him again. She had no fear—­no knowledge of what might hang in the balance—­of the delicate grey matter that trembled at her strokes... no surgeon would have dared question so sternly, so unsparingly.  But the delicate brain held itself steady and the boy’s eyes were turned to her—­piecing her broken words, answering them before they came—­as if she drew them forth at will—­

The door opened and she looked up and sprang forward.  “Listen, Phil.  He saw Betty!” Her hand trembled to the boy.  “He saw her—­that last day—­it must be—­tell him, Alcie—­”

The boy was looking at him smiling quietly, and nodding to him.

Philip Harris closed the door with set face.

XXII

“WHAT DID YOU SEE?”

“What did you see—­boy?” Philip Harris stood with his legs well apart, looking at him.

The boy answered quickly, his quick gesture running to the picture above them, and filling out his words.  He had gathered the story of the child as the mother had gathered his—­and his voice trembled a little, but it did not falter in the broken words.

Philip Harris glanced up.  The rain on the skylight had ceased, but the room was full of dusk.  “There is not time,” he said, “to-night—­You must rest now, and have your dinner and go to bed.  To-morrow there will be men to question you.  You must tell them what you have told us.”

“I tell them,” said the boy simply, “—­what I see.”

So the boy slept quietly... and through the night, messages ran beneath the ground, they leaped out and struck wires—­and laughed.  Men bent their heads to listen... and spoke softly and hurried.  Cars thrust themselves forth, striking at the miles—­their great bulk sliding on.  The world was awake—­gathering itself... toward the boy.