med his theory that all matter was becoming spirit--his brow felt
somehow so insubstantial.

But the most poignant memory of that little visit had been watching,
unobserved, her stepmother reading to herself a letter from Jon. It
was--she decided--the prettiest sight she had ever seen. Irene, lost as
it were in the letter of her boy, stood at a window where the light
fell on her face and her fine grey hair; her lips were moving, smiling,
her dark eyes laughing, dancing, and the hand which did not hold the
letter was pressed against her breast. Holly withdrew as from a vision
of perfect love, convinced that Jon must be nice.

When she saw him coming out of the station with a kit-bag in either
hand, she was confirmed in her predisposition. He was a little like
Jolly, that long-lost idol of her childhood, but eager-looking and less
formal, with deeper eyes and brighter-coloured hair, for he wore no
hat; altogether a very interesting "little" brother!

His tentative politeness charmed one who was accustomed to assurance in
the youthful manner; he was disturbed because she was to drive him
home, instead of his driving her. Shouldn't he have a shot? They hadn't
a car at Robin Hill since the war, of course, and he had only driven
once, and landed up a bank, so she oughtn't to mind his trying. His
laugh, soft and infectious, was very attractive, though that word, she
had heard, was now quite old-fashioned. When they reached the house he
pulled out a crumpled letter which she read while he was washing--a
quite short letter, which must have cost her father many a pang to
write.

"MY DEAR,

"You and Val will not forget, I trust, that Jon knows nothing of family
history. His mother and I think he is too young at present. The boy is
very dear, and the apple of her eye. Verbum sapientibus.

Your loving father, J. F."

That was all; but it renewed in Holly an uneasy regret that Fleur was
coming.

After tea she fulfilled that promise to herself and took Jon up the
hill. They had a long talk, sitting above an old chalk-pit grown over
with brambles and goosepenny. Milkwort and liverwort starred the green
slope, the larks sang, and thrushes in the brake, and now and then a
gull flighting inland would wheel very white against the paling sky,
where the vague moon was coming up. Delicious fragrance came to them,
as if little invisible creatures were running and treading scent out of
the blades of grass.

Jon, who had fallen s