in a position to rule
he had done so with a rod of iron. His purpose had ever been inflexible.
Jack had been the only person who had ever openly opposed his desire. In
this, as in other matters, his indomitable will had carried the day, and
in the moment of triumph it is only the weak who repine. Success should
have no disappointment for the man who has striven for it if his will be
strong.

Sir John rather liked the letter. It could only have been written by a
son of his--admitting nothing, not even defeat. But he was disappointed.
He had hoped that Jack would come--that some sort of a reconciliation
would be patched up. And somehow the disappointment affected him
physically. It attacked him in the back, and intensified the pain there.
It made him feel weak and unlike himself. He rang the bell.

"Go round," he said to the butler, "to Dr. Damer, and ask him to call in
during the evening if he has time."

The butler busied himself with the coffee tray, hesitating, desirous of
gaining time.

"Anything wrong, sir? I hope you are not feeling ill," he said
nervously.

"Ill, sir," cried Sir John. "D--n it, no; do I look ill? Just obey my
orders if you please."

CHAPTER XLIV. MADE UP

My faith is large in Time,
And that which shapes it to some perfect end.

"MY DEAR JACK,--At the risk of being considered an interfering old
woman, I write to ask you whether you are not soon coming to England
again. As you are aware, your father and I knew each other as children.
We have known each other ever since--we are now almost the only
survivors of our generation. My reason for troubling you with this
communication is that during the last six months I have noticed a very
painful change in your father. He is getting very old--he has no one but
servants about him. You know his manner--it is difficult for any one to
approach him, even for me. If you could come home--by accident--I
think that you will never regret it in after life. I need not suggest
discretion as to this letter. Your affectionate friend,

"CAROLINE CANTOURNE."

Jack Meredith read this letter in the coffee-room of the Hotel of the
Four Seasons at Wiesbaden. It was a lovely morning--the sun shone down
through the trees of the Friedrichstrasse upon that spotless pavement,
of which the stricken wot; the fresh breeze came bowling down from the
Taunus mountains all balsamic and invigorating--it p