beyond her; the blue eyes had narrowed, a
strange expression of intentness showed in her face. "I have always
tried not to," she said, "and yet I have always hated the Germans. I
wish I was a man." She turned abruptly. "But come upstairs, child, your
aunt had her couch moved close to the window this morning, she has lain
watching the drive all day. You will find her very changed," she added.
"Try not to show any signs of fear. She is very sensitive as to the
impression she creates. Every week it creeps a little higher, now she
cannot even move her hand. From the neck downwards she is like a log of
wood."

"And she is dying?" whispered Joan.

"Mercifully," the other answered. "My dear, we could not pray for
anything else."

She opened the door and motioned to Joan to go in. "I have brought her
to you, Janet," she said. "Now is your heart satisfied?"

Joan waited for a moment in the doorway. A long, low couch stood by the
window, the curtains were drawn back and the head of the couch had been
raised up, so that a full stream of light fell upon the figure lying on
it. But Aunt Janet's face itself was a little in the shadow, and for the
moment it looked very much like Joan's old memories. The straight,
braided hair, the little touch of white at the throat, the dark,
searching eyes. A nurse, a trim upheld figure in blue, stood a little
behind the couch out of sight of Aunt Janet's eyes, so that she could
frown and beckon to Joan to come forward unseen by the woman on the
couch. But Aunt Janet had noticed the slight hesitation, her face broke
into the most wistful smile that Joan had ever seen.

"I can't hold out my arms to you, Joan," she said; "but my heart aches
for you, all the same."

Joan took a little step forward; "Aunt Janet," she whispered. Then all
that had been bitter between them vanished, and much as she had used to
do, when as a child she sought the shelter of those dear arms, she ran
forward, and, kneeling by the couch, pressed her warm cheek against the
lifelessness of the other's hand. "I have come home, Aunt Janet," she
said, "I have come home."

The nurse with one glance at her patient's face tiptoed from the room,
leaving them alone together, and for a little they stayed silent just
close touching like that. Presently Aunt Janet spoke, little whispered
words.

"I hardened my heart," she said, "I would not let you creep back; even
when God argued with me I would not listen. My life finished when