I don't know what you are to tell her." The words seemed to die in his throat.
"But she will ask me, and I have got to say something.

Come,--out with it." Her eyes were still on his face; not a beat of his wings or a squirm of his body had she missed.
"Well just say how glad I am she is at home again and that her father is getting on so well, and tell her I will be up and around in a day or two, and that I am not a bit worse off for going to the station yesterday." "Anything else ?" "No,--unless you can think of something." "And if I do shall I add it ?" "Yes." "Oh,--then I know exactly what to do,--it will be something like this: 'Please, Ruth, take care of your precious self, and don't be worried about me or anything else, and remember that every minute I am away from you is misery, for I love you to distraction and--'" "Oh, Miss Felicia!" "No--none of your protests, sir!" she laughed.

"That is just what I am going to tell her.

And now don't you dare to move till Peter comes back," and with a toss of her aristocratic head the dear lady left the room, closing the door behind her.
And so our poor butterfly was left flat against the wall--all his flights ended.

No more roaming over honeysuckles, drinking in the honey of Ruth's talk; no more soaring up into the blue, the sunshine of hope dazzling his wings.