was a boy--pretty dirty and
ragged he was too--as he used to lean over the parapet of Blackfriars
Bridge and watch the current sort of swirling round the piers, and he
used to say as how he could hear what the river was saying. I used to
think him loony. But it was po'try, sonny, all the time."

The old man, thus started on reminiscence, continued, somewhat
garrulous, and Paul, sunk in the armchair by the fire, listened
indulgently, waiting for Jane. She, meanwhile, was occupied upstairs
and in the library answering telephone messages and sending word out to
callers by the maid. For, on the heels of Paul, as Barney Bill had
said, many had come on errand of inquiry and condolence and all the
news agencies and newspapers of London seemed to be on the telephone.
Some of the latter tried for speech with the newly elected candidate
whom they understood to be in the house, but Jane denied them firmly.
She had had some training as a politician's private secretary. At last
the clanging bell ceased ringing, and the maid ceased running to and
from the street door, and the doctor had come and given his certificate
and gone, and Jane joined the pair in the dining-room. She brought in
from the hall a tray of visiting cards and set it on the table. "I
suppose it was kind of them all to come," she said.

She sat down listlessly in a straight-backed chair, and then, at a
momentary end of her fine strength suddenly broke into tears and sobs
and buried her head on her arms. Paul rose, bent over her and clasped
her shoulders comfortingly. Presently she turned and blindly sought his
embrace. He raised her to her feet, and they stood as they had done
years ago, when, boy and girl, they had come to the parting of their
ways. She cried silently for a while, and then she said miserably:
"I've only you left, dear."

In this hour of spent effort and lassitude it was a queer physical
comfort, very pure and sweet, to feel the close contact of her young,
strong body. She, too, out of the wreck, was all that he had left. His
clasp tightened, and he murmured soothing words.

"Oh, my dear, I am so tired," she said, giving herself up, for her part
also, to the foolish solace of his arms. "I wish I could stay here
always, Paul."

He whispered: "Why not?"

Indeed, why not? Instinct spoke. His people were her people and her
people his. And she had proved herself a brave, true woman. Before him
no longer gleamed the will-o'-the-wisp leading him a f