ks, a rather smaller parcel than usual arrived from the
publishers. Denin, who was in the garden, took it from the postman, at
the new gate which led to the Mirador. It was in the morning, and he
had been gathering late roses; for every day he decorated with her
favorite blossoms the two principal rooms of the house which
child-Barbara had loved. He had a big pair of scissors in his hand; and
sitting down on a bench, in the cool strip of shade that ran the length
of the lower balcony, he cut the string which fastened the packet. This
he did, not because he was impatient to see what it contained, but
because he was warm and tired after two hours of garden work and wanted
an excuse to rest. The letters of so many sad women who begged for
counsel that he knew not how to give, were having a shattering effect
upon his nerves. He had not supposed that there were so many tragic
souls of women in the world, outside the war-zone, and he dreaded the
details of their lives. Sometimes he was half tempted to put the
letters away or destroy them, unread.

There was a vague hope in his mind that this parcel might have
something other than letters in it: but as the shears bit the tightly
tied string, the stout linen envelope burst open and began to disgorge
its contents: letters--letters--letters!

Between his feet John Sanbourne had placed the basket of roses; and the
letters, falling out of the big envelope, began to drop onto the green
leaves and crepy-crisp blooms of pink and white and cream.

"English stamps!" he said aloud--for the habit had grown upon him of
talking to himself. Bending down to pick up the letters, a dark flush
streamed to his forehead. There was one envelope of the same texture,
the same gray-blue tint, and the same long, narrow shape that Sir John
Denin had liked and always used at Gorston Old Hall. It had fallen face
downward; and as he rescued it from a fragrant bath of dew, he slowly
turned it over. There was an English stamp upon this envelope also, and
it was addressed to "John Sanbourne, Esq., care of Messrs. Eversedge
Sibley and Company," in Barbara's handwriting.

For an instant everything went black, just as it had done months ago
when he had got on his feet too suddenly in hospital. He shut his eyes,
and leaned back with his head against the house wall--the wall of
Barbara's Mirador. It was as if he could hear her voice speaking to him
across six thousand miles of land and sea. But it spoke to John