Achilles sprang forward. “She’s all right, Mr. Harris—all right!” His hand dropped to the trembling shoulder and rested there, as his quiet voice repeated the words. He bent¹ forward and lifted the child in his arms and moved away with her. But before he had traversed the long hall, the little head had fallen forward on his shoulder and the child slept. Behind the velvet² curtain, the voice of Conner wrestled³ faintly with the telephone and all about them great lights glowed on the walls; they lighted the great staircase that swept mistily⁴ up, and the figure of Achilles mounting slowly in the stately, lonely house, the child in his arms. His hand steadied the sleeping head with careful touch, against his shoulder.... They were not jolting⁵ now, in heavy cars, through the traffic streets—or wandering on the plain.... Little Betty Harris had come home.  
Above them at the top of the long stairs, a grey figure appeared, and paused a moment and looked down. Then Miss Stone descended⁶ swiftly, her hands outstretched—they did not touch the sleeping child, but hovered⁷ above her with a look—half pain—half joy.
 
Achilles smiled to her—“She come home,” he whispered.
 
She turned with quick breath and they mounted the stairs—the child still asleep... through the long corridor—to the princess’s room beyond—with its soft lights—and great, silken hangings and canopied⁸ bed, open for the night—waiting for Betty Harris.
 
Achilles bent and laid her down, with lightest touch, and straightened himself. “We let her sleep,” he said gently. “Sh............