eeze brought dead leaves about
her feet.

She sat there half an hour--an hour. The afternoon was darkening toward
dusk when she saw the motorcar again still a mile away. Even at this
distance, Mary could see that Peter was sitting beside his father in
the tonneau, and that the little figure was as erect and unyielding as
the big one.

She rose to her feet and stood watching the car as it curved and turned
on the winding road that led to the gates of Carolan Hall. Even when
the gates were entered, both figures still faced straight ahead.

Suddenly Sidney leaned toward the chauffeur, and a moment later the car
came to a full stop. Mary watched, mystified. Then Sidney got out, and
stretched a hand to the boy to help him from his place. The simple
little motion, all fatherly, brought the tears to her eyes. A moment
later the driver wheeled the car about, to take it to the garage by the
rear roadway, and Sidney and his son began to walk slowly toward the
house, the child's hand still in his father's. Once or twice they
stopped short, and once Mary saw Sidney point toward the house, and
saw, from the turn of Peter's head, that his eyes were following his
father's. Her heart rose with a wild, unreasoning hope.

When a dip in the road hid them, Mary turned toward the house, not
knowing whether to go to Jean or to slip away through the wood. But the
instant her eye fell on Madam Carolan's window she knew what had halted
Sidney, and a wave of heartsickness made her breath come short.

Jean had taken her place there, to watch and wait. She was keeping the
first vigil of her life. Mary could see how the slight figure drooped
in the carved chair; she remembered, with a pang, the other patient,
drooping figure that had stamped itself upon her childish memory so
many years ago. The suffocating tears rose in her throat. A sudden
sense of helplessness overwhelmed her.

Obviously, the watcher had not seen Sidney and Peter. Her head was
resting on her hand, and her heavy eyes were fixed upon some sombre
inner vision that was hers alone.

Mary crossed behind the house, and, as they came up through the
shrubbery, met Sidney and his son at the side door. Sidney's face was
tired, but radiant with a mysterious content. Peter looked white--awed.
He was clinging with both small brown hands to one of his father's
firm, big ones.

"I know what you're going to say, Mary," said Sidney, in a tone
curiously gentle, and with his oddly bright