g round there to-night, old
man. They'll be tired. So are you. And it's only fair I should have
first innings. I've waited a long time for it, Roy."

"_Dads!_" Roy looked at once penitent and reproachful--an engaging trick
of schoolroom days, when he felt a scolding in the air. "You never
said--you never gave me an idea."

"_You_ never sounded as if the idea would be acceptable."

"Didn't I? Letters are the devil," murmured Roy--all penitence now. "And
if it hadn't been for Tara----" He stopped awkwardly. Their eyes met,
and they smiled. "Did you know ... she wrote? And that's why I'm here?"

"Well done, Tara! I didn't know. I had dim suspicions. I also had a dim
hope that--my picture might tempt you----"

"Oh, it _would_ have--letter or no. It's an inspired thing."--He had
already written at length on that score.--"You were mightily clever--the
two of you!"

His father twinkled. "That as may be. We had the trifling advantage of
knowing our Roy!"

They sat on till all the light had ebbed from the sky and the moon had
come into her own. It was still early; but time is the least ingredient
of such a day; and Sir Nevil rose on the stroke of ten.

"You look fagged out, old boy. And the sooner you're asleep--the sooner
it will be to-morrow! A pet axiom of yours. D'you remember?"

Did he not remember?

They went upstairs together; the great house seemed oppressively empty
and silent. On the threshold of Roy's room they said good-night. There
was an instant of palpable awkwardness; then Roy--overcoming it--leaned
forward and kissed the patch of white hair on his father's temple.

"God bless you," Sir Nevil said rather huskily. "You ought to sleep
sound in there. Don't dream."

"But I love to dream," said Roy; and his father laughed.

"You're not so staggeringly changed inside! As sure as a gun, you'll be
late for breakfast!"

And he did dream. The moment his lids fell--she was there with him,
under the beeches, their sanctuary--she who all day had hovered on the
confines of his spirit, like a light, felt not seen. There were no words
between them, nor any need of words; only the ineffable peace of
understanding, of reunion....

Dream--or visitation--who could say? To him it seemed that only
afterwards sleep came--the dreamless sleep of renewal....

* * * * *

He woke egregiously early: such an awakening as he had not known for
months on end. And out there in the garden it was