fe with a contentment that surprised all who beheld
them.

It was the first visit he had been able to pay for some weeks, and
almost before he dismounted a woman stepped out from the large rustic
building, with its thatched roof, and came towards him with eagerness
and sorrow strangely blended in her eyes.

"Ah, how long you have been coming! I have watched for you ever since
we heard the sad news. Billy and I so wanted someone from _home_ to
talk to."

"I could not help it. I have been right away into the Ingigi district.
How are you?"

He did not give her his hand because the formalities had long been
dropped between them, but as he walked beside her to the building his
face seemed a shade softer.

"We are both well. We are splendid. But we have felt very cut off
these two weeks. England seemed so terribly far away. The evening we
heard, Billy and I just sat hand in hand under the stars, dabbing the
tears away. Don't smile, it was the only thing to do, and we longed so
to be in London." As she talked she passed into the cool shade of the
hut and busied herself preparing a lemon squash for him, not needing
to ask if it were his choice. "We were miserable for days. I'm sure
all of you were too."

"I did not hear until I came back yesterday."

"Ah ... I was afraid so. Of course, that made it worse."

She brought him the lemon squash and stood leaning against the table
beside him while he drank it, with the gladness of seeing him still in
her eyes, though they were grave now with sympathy. It was evident
their friendship had in it a wide understanding.

She was silent a few moments, and then added simply, "I suppose you
knew him personally?"

"Yes."

He did not tell her more, and she did not ask him. There was one
subject that no deepening of friendship had ever made it possible to
approach, and that was the story of his past. She knew only, from her
husband, who was extremely vague on the subject, that he had once held
a commission in the Blues, and been, not only a well-known society
man, but the heir of a rich old uncle. And then suddenly something had
happened, and his brother became the heir, and England had known him
no more. Even William Grenville himself was in the dark as to the
cause of the lost inheritance, as he had been abroad at the time, and
had never had much intercourse with Carew's branch of the family. He
was supposed to be in disgrace himself, because his soul was too
honest to allow hi