Behind him came light steps, but he did not hear them on the soft sand,
in the noise of a breaking wave. A small, firm hand slipped into his was
the first that he knew of another presence, and he did not need to look
down at the bright head to know it was Eleanor, and the touch thrilled
him in his loneliness. Neither spoke, but swung on across the sand, side
by side, the child springing easily to keep pace with his great step.
Beside the gift of English, Eleanor had its comrade gift of excellent
silence. Those who are born to know rightly the charm and the power and
the value of words, know as well the value of the rests in the music.
Little Eleanor, her nervous fingers clutched around the Bishop's big
thumb, was pouring strength and comfort into him, and such an instinct
kept her quiet.

So they walked for a long half-hour, the Bishop fighting out his battle,
sometimes stopping, sometimes talking aloud to himself, but Eleanor,
through it all, not speaking. Once or twice he felt her face laid
against his hand, and her hair that brushed his wrist, and the savage
selfishness of reserve slowly dissolved in the warmth of that light
touch and the steady current of gentleness it diffused through him.
Clearly and more clearly he saw his way and, as always happens, as he
came near to the mountain, the mountain grew lower. "Over the Alps lies
Italy." Why should he count the height when the Italy of Dick's
happiness and Fielding's duty done lay beyond? The clean-handed,
light-hearted disregard of self that had been his habit of mind always
came flooding back like sunshine as he felt his decision made. After
all, doing a duty lies almost entirely in deciding to do it. He stooped
and picked Eleanor up in his arms.

"Isn't the baby sleepy? We've settled it together--it's all right now,
Eleanor. I'll carry you back to Aunt Basha."