ut for the best."

Noel gave his huge hand a squeeze; her eyes had filled with tears, and
she turned quickly up towards the Square, where a dark figure was coming
towards her, in whom she recognised her father. His face was worn and
harassed; he walked irresolutely, like a man who has lost something.

"Nollie!" he said. "Thank God!" In his voice was an infinite relief.
"My child, where have you been?"

"It's all right, Daddy. Cyril has just gone to the front. I've been
seeing him off from Charing Cross."

Pierson slipped his arm round her. They entered the house without
speaking....
3

By the rail of his transport, as far--about two feet--as he could get
from anyone, Cyril Morland stood watching Calais, a dream city, brighten
out of the heat and grow solid. He could hear the guns already, the
voice of his new life-talking in the distance. It came with its strange
excitement into a being held by soft and marvellous memories, by one long
vision of Noel and the moonlit grass, under the dark Abbey wall. This
moment of passage from wonder to wonder was quite too much for a boy
unused to introspection, and he stood staring stupidly at Calais, while
the thunder of his new life came rolling in on that passionate moonlit
dream.

VII

After the emotions of those last three days Pierson woke with the feeling
a ship must have when it makes landfall. Such reliefs are natural, and
as a rule delusive; for events are as much the parents of the future as
they were the children of the past. To be at home with both his girls,
and resting--for his holiday would not be over for ten days--was like old
times. Now George was going on so well Gratian would be herself again;
now Cyril Morland was gone Noel would lose that sudden youthful love
fever. Perhaps in two or three days if George continued to progress, one
might go off with Noel somewhere for one's last week. In the meantime
the old house, wherein was gathered so much remembrance of happiness and
pain, was just as restful as anywhere else, and the companionship of his
girls would be as sweet as on any of their past rambling holidays in
Wales or Ireland. And that first morning of perfect idleness--for no one
knew he was back in London--pottering, and playing the piano in the
homely drawing-room where nothing to speak of was changed since his
wife's day, was very pleasant. He had not yet seen the girls, for Noel
did not come down to breakfast, and Gratian was