ll hope? Would she ever understand ... ever
forgive ... the inglorious episode of Rose? If, at heart, he could plead
the excuse of Adam, he could not plead it to her.

Reverently he took that miracle of a picture between his hands and set
it on the broad mantelpiece, that distance might quicken the illusion of
life.

Then the spell was on him again. Her sweetness and light seemed to
illumine the unbeautiful room. Of a truth he knew, now, what it meant to
love and be in love with every faculty of soul and body; knew it for a
miracle of renewal, the elixir of life. And--the light of that knowledge
revealed how secondary a part of it was the craving with which he had
craved possession of Rose. Steeped in poetry as he was, there stole into
his mind a fragment of Tagore--'She who had ever remained in the depths
of my being, in the twilight of gleams and glimpses ... I have roamed
from country to country, keeping her in the core of my heart.'

All the jangle of jarred nerves and shaken faith; all the confusion of
shattered hopes and ideals would resolve itself into coherence at
last--if only ... if only----!

And dropping suddenly from the clouds, he remembered his letters ...
_her_ letter.

A sealed envelope had fallen unheeded from his father's parcel: but it
was hers he seized--and half hesitated to open. What if she were
announcing her own engagement to some infernal fellow at home? There
must be scores and scores of them....

His hand was not quite steady as he unfolded the two sheets that bore
his father's crest and the home stamp, 'Bramleigh Beeches.'

"My Dear Roy (he read),

"_Many_ happy returns of June the Ninth. It was one of our great
days--wasn't it?--once upon a time. All your best and dearest
wishes we are wishing for you--over here. And of course I've heard
your tremendous news; though you never wrote and told me--why? You
say she is beautiful. I hope she is a lot more besides. You would
need a lot more, Roy, unless you've changed very much from the boy
I used to know.

"It is _cruel_ having to write--in the same breath--about Lance.
From the splendid boy he was, one can guess the man he became. To
me it seems almost like half of you gone. And I'm sure it must seem
so to you--my _poor_ Roy. I don't wonder you felt bad about the way
of it; but it was the essence of him--that kind of thing. A verse
of Charles Sorley keeps on in my