y found himself again in
the simple little raftered cottage kitchen, with Charlie tearing madly
round and round him in ecstasy, uttering short yelps of joy. Something
struggled in his throat for utterance,--it seemed ages since he had last
seen this little abode of peace and sweet content, and a curious
impression was in his mind of having left one identity here to take up
another less pleasing one elsewhere. A deep, unspeakable gratitude
overwhelmed him,--he felt to the full the sympathetic environment of
love,--that indescribable sense of security which satisfies the heart
when it knows it is "dear to some one else."

"If I be dear to some one else,
Then I should be to myself more dear."

For there is nothing in the whole strange symphony of human life, with
its concordances and dissonances, that strikes out such a chord of
perfect music as the consciousness of love. To feel that there is one at
least in the world to whom you are more dear than to any other living
being, is the very centralisation of life and the mainspring of action.
For that one you will work and plan,--for that one you will seek to be
noble and above the average in your motives and character--for that one
you will, despite a multitude of drawbacks, agree to live. But without
this melodious note in the chorus all the singing is in vain.

Led to his accustomed chair by the hearth, Helmsley sank into it
restfully, and closed his eyes. He was so thoroughly tired out mentally
and physically with the strain he had put upon himself in undertaking
his journey, as well as in getting through the business he had set out
to do, that he was only conscious of a great desire to sleep. So that
when he shut his eyes for a moment, as he thought, he was quite unaware
that he fell into a dead faint and so remained for nearly half an hour.
When he came to himself again, Mary was kneeling beside him with a very
pale face, and Angus was standing quite close to him, while no less a
personage than Mr. Bunce was holding his hand and feeling his pulse.

"Better now?" said Mr. Bunce, in a voice of encouraging mildness. "We
have done too much. We have walked too far. We must rest."

Helmsley smiled--the little group of three around him looked so
troubled, while he himself felt nothing unusual.

"What's the matter?" he asked. "I'm all right--quite all right. Only
just a little tired!"

"Exactly!" And Mr. Bunce nodded profoundly. "Just a little tired! We
have tak