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Harley had become tractable in everything but the matter of leaving Napier and returning home. He would eat when he was told to do so. He would sleep, or appear to sleep, when ordered to bed by Roy. He smiled absently when he saw that he was expected to appreciate his guardian’s humour; but when it was suggested that he would be better elsewhere he became sullen and obstinate. And, with every passing day, he grew thinner and paler, the grey in his hair became more noticeable, his walk became a little more laboured.

“All he needs, parson, is something to wake him up,” Roy said, with exasperation, in the third week after the earthquake. “He’s walking in his sleep; and if he doesn’t soon wake up he’ll die on his feet.”

“Time heals all things,” the Anglican minister replied, shaking his head doubtingly nevertheless.

“What about God? Couldn’t you pray for him?”

“I have prayed for him; but God heals only those who believe in Him. Harley does not believe. It is his, and our, misfortune.”

“Well, he’s got to believe in me,” said Roy stoutly. “There’s a tombstone up on the hill that’s getting a polish on it where I sit; and I’m willing to wear the thing to a wafer with sitting before I’ll allow Harley to die on my hands.”

“You must be careful that he does not see you watch him,” cautioned the minister. “Men in his state of mind are very near dementia.”

“I’ll look out for that, parson. But, I’m giving you fair warning, we may have to feed him forcibly one of these days. What beats me, though, is that nobody’s been over here looking for him, or his wife. They must be orphans, the pair of them.”

“Communication is so disorganised. His wife and child have been reported dead.”

“That’s so. That accounts for it, I suppose. Do you think he’d wake up if I went for him? Sort of smacked him in the ear and asked about it afterwards?”