hands, Polly.'

Father and son shook hands, with no very great good will, if the truth
must be told, on the side of the younger; for Polson had yet to learn
a lesson or two and had not caught the art of forgiveness for the
repentant sinner who was still prosperous. It is a great deal easier
for almost anybody to forgive the criminal who has fallen to hunger and
tatters than it is to find an excuse for him when he goes in shining
broadcloth and lustrous silk and patent leather.

De Blacquaire went stumping along on his crutches in the weak spring
sunshine, and Polson and his father, by mere chance, were looking after
him when he paused at the corner of the one important monument in the
grounds, and raised his forage cap to some person as yet unseen.

There is a sort of legend often taught in verse and fiction to the
effect that no one true lover can be near another without the presence
being felt. But Polson had turned away when his father laid a hand upon
his sleeve, and asked him, 'Don't you see who that is, Polly?' And
the lad, turning, saw the goddess of his dreams. It was Irene, and he
recognised her face almost without surprise, for it flashed upon him
instantly that her voice had sounded through all his fevered dreams
since he had first laid his head upon the clean, sweet-smelling hospital
pillow. The girl was dressed in black, and her slight figure looked the
slighter for its garb. She came forward with a smile in her eyes, and
with a quickened step.

'I've kept my promise,' said Jervase the elder, 'and I haven't spoke a
word.' And with that he exhibited a tact he had not shown before, and
walked smartly away, leaving the boy and girl together.

'I have wanted to see you,' she said amply, 'but I have kept away until
I could be sure of bringing you good news. You know that my father is
here?'

'I saw him on Lord Raglan's Staff at the Alma,' said Polson, 'and I have
heard about him since from time to time.'

De Blacquaire was hobbling away on his crutches towards the
hospital, and by this time was barely visible. Jervase in his black
broadcloth and shining silk hat brandished his umbrella in the rear, and
there was not another soul in sight.

'I knew you, dear,' said Polson. 'I have had your voice and hand about
me for a month past.'

'I came out with my father,' said Irene, 'more than a year ago. Lord
Raglan gave him some sort of work to do at the Embassy at Constantinople
to begin with, and when the fi