al's youth and his assured
bearing. He felt a sudden sinking fear, a weakening of all his vital
forces, and he drew in his breath slowly and deeply. But no one noticed
him; they were looking at the tall figure of the prodigal, standing with
his hat at his hip and his head thrown back, holding the girl with his
eyes.

Collier touched Sir Charles on the arm, and nodded his head towards the
library. "Come," he whispered, "let us old people leave them together.
They've a good deal to say." Sir Charles obeyed in silence, and crossing
the library to the great oak chair, seated himself and leaned wearily
on the table before him. He picked up one of the goose quills and began
separating it into little pieces. Mr. Collier was pacing up and down,
biting excitedly on the end of his cigar. "Well, this has certainly been
a great night," he said. "And it is all due to you, Sir Charles--all due
to you. Yes, they have you to thank for it."

"They?" said Sir Charles. He knew that it had to come. He wanted the man
to strike quickly.

"They? Yes--Florence Cameron and Henry," Mr. Collier answered. "Henry
went away because she wouldn't marry him. She didn't care for him then,
but afterwards she cared. Now they're reunited,--and so they're happy;
and my wife is more than happy, and I won't have to bother any more; and
it's all right, and all through you."

"I am glad," said Sir Charles. There was a long pause, which the men,
each deep in his own thoughts, did not notice.

"You will be leaving now, I suppose?" Sir Charles asked. He was looking
down, examining the broken pen in his hand.

Mr. Collier stopped in his walk and considered. "Yes, I suppose they
will want to get back," he said. "I shall be sorry myself. And you? What
will you do?"

Sir Charles started slightly. He had not yet thought what he would do.
His eyes wandered over the neglected work, which had accumulated on the
desk before him. Only an hour before he had thought of it as petty and
little, as something unworthy of his energy. Since that time what change
had taken place in him?

For him everything had changed, he answered, but in him there had been
no change; and if this thing which the girl had brought into his life
had meant the best in life, it must always mean that. She had been an
inspiration; she must remain his spring of action. Was he a slave, he
asked himself, that he should rebel? Was he a boy, that he could turn
his love to aught but the best account? H