Offhand as the words were, there was unmistakable satisfaction, happiness, even triumph in his voice, and he returned Aleck’s hand-clasp with a vise-like grip.  His masculinity ignored Agatha, or pretended to; but she had followed him to the door.  As the old man clasped hands with Aleck, he heard behind him a deep, “O Doctor!” The next instant Agatha’s arms were around his neck, and the back of his bald head was pressed against something that could only have been a cheek.  Surprising as this was, the doctor did not stampede; but by the time he had got clear of Aleck and had reached up his hand to find the cheek, it was gone, and the arms, too.  Susan Stoddard somehow got mixed up in the general Te Deum in the hall, and for the first time, now that the fight was over, allowed her feminine feelings—­that is, a few tears—­to come to the surface.

Aleck, however, went to pieces, gone down in that species of mental collapse by which deliberate, judicial men become reckless, and strong men become weak.  He stepped softly back into the bedroom and leaned again over the curved footboard, his face quite miserable.  He went nearer, and held his ear down close to the bedclothes, to hear for himself the regular beating of the heart.  Slowly he convinced himself that the doctor’s words might possibly be true, at least.  He turned to Hand, who had come in and was adjusting the shades, and asked him:  “Do you believe he’s asleep?” in the tone of one who demands an oath.

“Oh, yes, sir; he’s sleeping nicely, Mr. Van Camp.  I saw the change the moment I came in.”

Aleck still hesitated to leave, fearful, apparently, lest he might take the blessed sleep away with him.  As he stood by the bed, a low but distinct whistle sounded outside, then, after a moment’s interval, was repeated.  Aleck lifted his head at the first signal, took another look at James and one at Hand, then light as a cat he darted from the room and down the stairs, leaving the house through one of the tall windows in the parlor.  Mr. Chamberlain was standing near the lilac bushes, his big figure outlined dimly in the darkness.

“Shut up!” Aleck whispered fiercely, as he ran toward him.  “He’s just got to sleep, Chamberlain; gone to sleep, like a baby.  Don’t make an infernal racket!”

“Oh, I didn’t know.  Didn’t mean to make a racket,” began Chamberlain, when Aleck plumped into him and shook him by the shoulders.

“He’s asleep—­like a baby!” he reiterated.  And Chamberlain, wise comrade, took Aleck by the arm and tramped him off over the hill to settle his nerves.  They walked for an hour arm in arm over the road that lay like a gray ribbon before them in the night, winding up slantwise along the rugged country.