And suddenly, as he stooped, there must have come a great light into his eyes. Joan and the Singletons were the last to go. They promised to show Mr. Halliday a short cut to his hotel in Holborn.!

“You’re not playing the game,” whispered Joan, shaking her head. “I only promised on condition that you would try to get well.” “I was going to buy you a present,” he grumbled. “But you wouldn’t let me get up.”

The child turned her head as they walked and looked at her. Joan felt herself smarting under that look, but persisted. “And yet in your inmost thoughts you know that you are wrong: that love of self brings you no peace. Who is happier than the lover, thinking only how to serve? Who is the more joyous: he who sits alone at the table, or he who shares his meal with a friend? It is more blessed to give than to receive. How can you doubt it? For what do you toil and strive but that you may give to your children, to your loved ones, reaping the harvest of their good?” A figure was loitering the other side of the street when she reached home. She thought she somehow recognized it, and crossed over. It was McKean, smoking his everlasting pipe. Success having demanded some such change, he had migrated to “The Albany,” and she had not seen him for some time. He had come to have a last look at the house—in case it might happen to be the last. He was off to Scotland the next morning, where he intended to “join up.”