e himself
felt. It meant certain promotion, too; Dick being the very man, as
adjutant, to lick a regiment into shape. John could not help
pondering a little, by contrast, on his own career, but without any
tinge of jealousy or envy. Dick owed nothing to luck; would honestly
earn or justify any favour that Fortune might grant.

The young adjutant, stepping ashore, swung round on his heel to call
an order to the crowding boats. His voice, albeit John thrilled to
the sound of it, was not the voice he remembered. It had hardened
somehow. And his face, when John caught sight of it in profile, was
not the face of a man on the sunny side of favour. It was manlier,
more resolute perhaps than of old, but it had put on reserve and
showed even some discontent in the set of the chin--a handsome face
yet, and youthful, and full of eager strength; but with a shadow on
it (thought John) that it had not worn in the days when Dick
Montgomery took his young ease in Sion and criticised men and
generals.

He was handling the disembarkation well. Clearly, too, his men
respected and liked him. But (thought John again) who could help
loving him? John had not bargained for the rush of tenderness that
shook him as he stood there unperceived, and left him trembling.
For a moment he longed only to escape; and then, mastered by an
impulse, scarce knowing what he did, stepped forward and touched his
cousin's arm.

"Dick!" he said softly.

Montgomery turned, cast a sharp glance at him, and fell back staring.

"_You!_" John saw the lips form the word, but no sound came.
He himself was watching Dick's eyes.

Yes, as incredulity passed, joy kindled in them, and the old
affection. For once in his life Richard Montgomery fairly broke
down.

"Jack!"--he stretched out both hands. "We heard--You were not among
the prisoners--" His voice stammered to a halt: his eyes brimmed.

"Come, and hear all about it. Oh, Dick, Dick, 'tis good to see your
face again!"

They linked arms, and Dick suffered John to lead him back to the
canoe among the rushes.

"My mother . . . ?" asked John, halting there by the brink.

"You haven't heard?" Dick turned his face and stared away across the
river.

"I have heard nothing. . . . Is she dead?"

Dick bent his head gravely. "A year since. . . . Your brother Philip
wrote the news to me. It was sudden: just a failure of the heart, he
said. She had known of the danger for years, but concealed it."