ifice, made meaningless
and of no account by the destined march of events.

He felt vaguely baulked and disillusioned--bewildered that a man's
aim and purpose, which in its accomplishing had cost so immeasurable a
price--crushing the whole beauty and savour out of life--should suddenly
be destroyed and nullified. In the light of the present, the past seemed
futile--years that the locust had eaten.

It was a relief when presently some one broke in upon the confused
turmoil of his thoughts with a message from Tim. He was asking to see
both Sara and Maurice--would they go to him?

Together they went up to his room--Maurice still with that look of
grave perplexity upon his face which his somewhat bitter reflections had
engendered.

The eager, boyish face on the pillow flushed a little as they entered.

"Mother has told me everything," he said simply, going straight to the
point. "It's--it's been rather a facer."

Maurice pointed to the narrow ribbon--the white, purple, white of
the Military Cross--upon the breast of the khaki tunic flung across a
chair-back--a rather disheveled tunic, rescued with other odds and ends
from the wreckage of Tim's room at Sunnyside.

"It needn't be, Tim," he said, "with that to your credit."

Tim's eyes glowed.

"That's just it--that's what I wanted to see you for," he said. "I hope
you won't think it cheek," he went on rather shyly, "but I wanted you
to know that--that what you did for my mother--assuming the disgrace,
I mean, that wasn't yours--hasn't been all wasted. What little I've
done--well, it would never have been done had I known what I know now."

"I think it would," Maurice dissented quietly.

Tim shook his head.

"No. Had my father been cashiered--for cowardice"--he stumbled a
little over the words--"the knowledge of it would have knocked all the
initiative out of me. I should have been afraid of showing the white
feather. . . . The fear of being afraid would have been always at the
back of me." He paused, then went on quickly: "And I think it would have
been the same with Dad. It--it would have broken him. He could never
have fought as he did with that behind him. You've . . . you've given
two men to the country. . . ."

He broke off, boyishly embarrassed, a little overwhelmed by his own big
thoughts.

And suddenly to Maurice, all that had been dark and obscure grew clear
in the white shining of the light that gleamed down the track of those
lost years.

A beau