n the table and mantelshelf, and a pleasant fire on the
hearth. It was even reassuring after she had been there a minute or
two.

Then she went to look at the smoking-room where she had sat with him
and heard the curious noise of the cracking wood on the night of the
thaw, when the boy had behaved so foolishly. Here, too, was a fire, a
tall porter's chair drawn on one side with its back to the door, and a
deep leather couch set opposite. There was a box of Laurie's
cigarettes set ready on the table--candles, matches, flowers, the
illustrated papers--yes, everything.

But she stood looking on it all for a few moments with an odd emotion.
It was familiar, homely, domestic--yet it was strange. There was an
air of expectation about it all.... Then on a sudden the emotions
precipitated themselves in tenderness.... Ah! poor Laurie....

* * * * *

"It is all perfectly right," she said to the old lady.

"Are the cigarettes there?"

"Yes: I noticed them particularly."

"And flowers?"

"Yes, flowers too."

"What time is it, my dear? I can't see."

Maggie peered at the clock.

"It's just after six, Auntie. Will you have the candles?"

The old lady shook her head.

"No, my dear: my eyes can't stand the light. Why hasn't the boy come?"

"Why, it's hardly time yet. Shall I bring him up at once?"

"Just for two minutes," sighed the old lady. "My head's bad again."

"Poor dear," said Maggie.

"Sit down, my dearest, for a few minutes. You'll hear the wheels from
here.... No, don't talk or read."

There, then, the two women sat waiting.

* * * * *

Outside the twilight was falling, layer on layer, over the spring
garden, in a great stillness. The chilly wind of the afternoon had
dropped, and there was scarcely a sound to be heard from the living
things about the house that once more were renewing their strength.
Yet over all, to the Catholic's mind at least, there lay a shadow of
death, from associations with that strange anniversary that was
passing, hour by hour....

As to what Maggie thought during those minutes of waiting, she could
have given afterwards no coherent description. Matters were too
complicated to think clearly; she knew so little; there were so many
hypotheses. Yet one emotion dominated the rest--expectancy with a
tinge of fear. Here she sat, in this peaceful room, with all the
homely paraphernalia of convalescence about her--the f