thought and whispered to himself: "This, too,
can be borne, but oh, Thora, Thora!" and the two words shattered his
pride and made him ready to weep when he sat down in Ragnor's office
and saw the kind, pitiful face of the elder man looking at him. It
gave him the power he needed and he asked bluntly what questions he
was required to answer.

Ragnor gave him the unhappy letter and he read it with a look of anger
and astonishment. "Father," he said, "all this woman writes is true
and not true; and of all accusations, these are the worst to defend. I
must go back to my very earliest remembrances in order to fairly state
my case, and if you will permit me to do this, in the presence of
your wife and Thora, I will then accept whatever decision you make."

For at least three minutes Ragnor made no answer. He sat with closed
eyes and his face held in the clasp of his left hand. Ian was bending
forward, eagerly watching him. There was not a movement, not a sound;
it seemed as if both men hardly breathed. But when Ragnor moved, he
stood up. "Let us be going," he said, "they are anxious. They are
watching. You shall do as you say, Ian."

Rahal saw them first. Thora was lying back in her mother's chair with
closed eyes. She could not bear to look into the empty road watching
for one who might be gone forever. Then in a blessed moment, Rahal
whispered, "They are coming!"

"Both? Both, Mother?"

"Both!"

"Thank God!" And she would have cried out her thanks and bathed them
in joyful tears if she had been alone. But Ian must not see her
weeping. Now, especially, he must be met with smiles. And then, when
she felt herself in Ian's embrace, they were both weeping. But oh, how
great, how blessed, how sacramental are those joys that we baptise
with tears!

During the serving of dinner there was no conversation but such
as referred to the war and other public events. Many great ones
had transpired since they parted, and there was plenty to talk
about: the battles of Balaklava and Inkerman had been fought; the
never-to-be-forgotten splendour of Scarlett's Charge with the
Heavy Brigade, and the still more tragically splendid one of the
Light Brigade, had both passed into history.

More splendid and permanent than these had been the trumpet "call" of
Russell in the _Times_, asking the women of England who among them
were ready to go to Scutari Hospital and comfort and help the men
dying for England? "Now," he cried,

"The Son