and start in half-an-hour.
We may perhaps get home before him. I doubt whether he can catch
anything down from town before the five o'clock."

She flew to her room, pressing Ronnie's sad little note to her heart.
All the world looked different! Ah, what would it be, now, to tell him
of his little son! But she must get home before him. Supposing Ronnie
went upstairs alone, and found the baby!

CHAPTER XVIII

THE FACE IN THE MIRROR

Ronnie caught the three o'clock train from town, at Huntingford, as the
porter had predicted.

No carriage was at the station, so he had a rather long walk from
Hollymead to the Grange.

It was a clear, crisp evening and freezing hard. He could feel the frost
crackle under his feet, as he tramped along the country lanes.

When he came in sight of the lodge, it reminded him of an old-fashioned
Christmas card; the large iron gates, their grey stone supports covered
with moss and lichen and surmounted by queer rampant beasts unknown to
zoology, holding in their stone claws oval shields on which were carved
the ancient arms of Helen's family; the little ivy-covered house, with
gabled roof and lattice-windows, firelight from within, shining golden
and ruddy on the slight sprinkling of frosty snow.

As he passed in at the gate he saw the motherly figure of Mrs. Simpkins,
a baby on her arm, appear at the window, lifting her hand to draw down
the crimson blind. Before the blind shut in the bright interior, Ronnie
caught a glimpse of three curly heads round a small Christmas-tree on
the kitchen-table. Simpkins, in his shirt-sleeves, was lighting the
topmost candle.

Ronnie walked on beneath the chestnuts and beeches, up the long sweep of
the park drive, a dark lonely figure.

He was very tired; his heart was heavy and sad.

It had been such a cheery glimpse of home, through the lodge window,
before the red blind shut it in. Simpkins was a lucky fellow. Mrs.
Simpkins looked so kind and comfortable, with the baby's head nestling
against her capacious bosom.

Ronnie turned to look back at the brightly-lighted cottage. The ruddy
glow from the blind, fell on the snow. He wondered whether there was a
Upas tree in that humble home. Surely not! A Upas tree and a
Christmas-tree could hardly find place in the same home. The tree of
Light and Love, would displace the tree of subtle poison.

He turned wearily from the distant light and plodded on.

Then he remembered that, in her last let