that the news from France is excellent.'

'It is,' said Selwyn. 'I think the end is only a matter of hours.'

'A matter of hours; and after that--peace. Austin, I haven't much to
live for. It was in my stars, I suppose, that I should walk alone; but
there is one fear which haunts me--that all this may be for
nothing--for nothing. If I thought that on my blindness and the
suffering of all these other men a structure could be built where
Britain and America and France would clasp the torch of humanity
together, I would welcome this darkness as few men ever welcomed the
light. But it is a terrible thought--that people may forget; that
civilisation might make no attempt to atone for her murdered dead.'

He smiled again, and fumbling for Selwyn's shoulder, patted it, as if
to say he was not to be taken too seriously.

'The world must have looked wonderful to-day in this sunlight,' he went
on. 'Do you know, I hardly dare think of the spring at all. I
sometimes feel that I could never look upon the green of a meadow
again, and live.'

Selwyn had beckoned to the nurse, who was coming across the lawn
towards them.

'Van,' he said, taking his friend's arm, 'don't be too surprised, will
you? But--but an old friend has come back to you.'

'Who is it?' Van Derwater's form became rigid. 'I can hear a step,
Austin! Austin, where are you? What is this you're doing to me?
Speak, man--would you drive me mad?'

Without a sound the girl had clutched his hand and had fallen on her
knees at his feet.

'Marjory!' With a pitiful joy he felt her hair and face with his hand,
and in his weakness he almost fell. Vainly he protested that she must
go away, that he could not let her share his tragedy. Her only answer
was his name murmured over and over again.

Creeping silently away, Selwyn rejoined Elise. Once they looked back.
The girl was in Van Derwater's arms, and his face was raised towards
the sun which he was nevermore to see. But on that face was written a
happiness that comes to few men in this world.

CHAPTER XXVII.

A LIGHT ON THE WATER.

I.

A sulky winter came hard upon November, and the war of armies was
succeeded by the war of diplomats.

One day in January the same vehicle that had driven Selwyn to Roselawn
deposited another visitor there. He was a sturdy, well-set-up fellow,
but a thinness and a certain pallor in the cheeks conflicted with their
natural weather-beaten texture.

The mor