hand, was lifting the
other to the shelf above his head for his tobacco-jar. The last words
of the hymn were still on their lips.

Denas opened the door and stood just within the room, looking at them.
Both fixed their eyes upon her. They thought they saw a spirit. They
were speechless.

"Father! Mother! It is Denas!"

She came forward quickly as she spoke. Joan uttered one piercing cry.
John let his pipe fall to pieces on the hearthstone and drew his child
within his arms. "It be Denas! It be Denas! her own dear self," he
said, and he sat down and took her to his breast, and the poor girl
snuggled her head into his big beard, and he kissed away her tears and
soothed her as he had done when she was only a baby.

And then poor Joan was on the rug at their feet. She was taking the
wet stockings and shoes off of her daughter's feet; she was drying
them gently with her apron, fondling and kissing them as she had been
used to do when her little Denas came in from the boats or the school
wet-footed. And Denas was stooping to her mother and kissing the happy
tears off her face, and the conversation was only in those single
words that are too sweet to mix with other words; until Joan, with
that womanly instinct that never fails in such extremities, began to
bring into the excited tone those tender material cares that make love
possible and life-like.

"Oh, my darling," she cried, "your little feet be dripping wet, and
you be hungry, I know, and we will have a cup of tea. And, Denas,
there be such a pie in the cupboard. And a bowl of clotted cream, too.
It is just like the good God knew my girl was coming home. And I
wonder who put it into my heart to have a mother's welcome for her?
And how be your husband, my dear?"

"He is dead, mother."

"God's peace on him!"

"And the little lad, Denas--my little grandson that be called John
after me."

"He is dead, too, father."

Then they were speechless, and they kissed her again and mingled their
tears with her tears, and John felt a sudden lonely place where he had
put this poor little grandson whom he was never to see.

Then Denas began to drink her warm tea and to talk to her parents; but
they said no words but kind words of the dead. They listened to the
pitiful taking-away of the young man, and before the majesty of death
they forgot their anger and their dislike, and left him hopefully to
the mercy of the Merciful. For if John and Joan knew anything, they
knew tha