s together and looked at
the fire.

If she had held to her girlish idea? If she had become a "Sister"?
But--she shook her head as she sat there alone--Robin! And then she
sighed; she had not thought, "But--Dion!" She was almost angry with
herself for being so introspective, so mentally observant of herself.
All this was surely unnatural in her. Was she going to become
morbid--she who had such a hatred of morbidity? She tried to force
herself to feel that she had missed Dion tremendously, that his return
would make things right in Little Cloisters.

But had they ever been wrong? And, besides, Little Cloisters would
almost immediately be only a dear memory of the past.

Rosamund began almost to hate herself. Was she capable of any sort of
treachery? Swiftly she began to dwell upon all the dear goodness of
Dion, upon his love, his admiration, his perpetual thoughtfulness,
his unselfishness, his straight purity, his chivalry, his unceasing
devotion. He was a man to trust implicitly. That was enough. She trusted
him and loved him. She thanked God that he was back in England. She had
missed him more, much more than she had realized; she was quite sure of
that now that she had recalled things. One happiness is apt to oust
the acute memory of another. That had (quite naturally) happened in her
case. It would indeed have been strange if, living in such a dear place
as "My Welsley," with Robin the precious one, she had been a miserable
woman! And she had always known--as women know things they do not
know--that Dion would come back after behaving nobly. And that was
exactly what had happened.

She looked at the arm-chair opposite.

How splendid it would be to see dear, brave, good, faithful Dion
sitting in it in a moment, safe after all his hardships and dangers,
comfortable, able to rest at last in his own home.

For Little Cloisters would be his home even if only for a few days. And
then----What about Mr. Thrush? What about--oh, so many things?

"I'll find the way all right," Dion had said at the station, after he
had been assured that it was only ten minutes' walk, "or so," to Little
Cloisters.

The little walk would be a preparation for the very great event. He only
knew how great it was when he got out at the Welsley Station.

He had never seen Welsley before, though its fame had been familiar to
him from childhood. Thousands of pilgrims had piously visited it, coming
from afar; now yet another pilgrim had come fr