it a lot ... When he saw me, he would
say: 'Wot you doing here, you surly little devil--listening, eh?'"
Tony's youthful voice took on such a snarl that Jan positively jumped,
and put out her hand to stop him. "'I'll give you somefin to listen
to....'"

"Tony, Tony, couldn't you try to forget all that?"

Tony shook his head. "No! I shall never forget it, because, you see,
it's all mixed up with Mummy so, and you said"--here Tony held up an
accusing small finger at Jan--"you said I was never to forget her, not
the least little bit."

"I know I did," Jan owned, and fell to pondering what was best to be
done about these memories. Absently she dug her hoe into the ground,
making ruts in the gravel, while Tony watched her solemnly.

"Then why," he went on, "do you not want me to remember Daddie?"

"Because," said Jan, "everything you seem to remember sounds so unkind."

"Well, I can't help that," Tony answered.

Jan arose from the seat. "If we sit idling here all afternoon," she
remarked severely, "we shall never get that border weeded for Earley."

The afternoon post came in at four, and when Jan went in there were
several letters for her on the hall-table, spread out by Hannah in a
neat row, one above the other. It was Saturday, and the Indian mail was
in. There was one from Peter, but it was another letter that Jan seized
first, turning it over and looking at the post-mark, which was
remarkably clear. She knew the excellent handwriting well, though she
had seen it comparatively seldom.

It was Hugo Tancred's; and the post-mark was Port Said. She opened it
with hands that trembled, and it said:

"MY DEAR JAN,

"In case other letters have miscarried, which is quite
possible while I was up country, let me assure you how
grateful I am for all you did for my poor wife and the
children--and for me in letting me know so faithfully what
your movements have been. I sent to the bank for your
letters while passing through Bombay recently, and but for
your kindness in allowing the money I had left for my
wife's use to remain to my credit, I should have been
unable to leave India, for things have gone sadly against
me, and the world is only too ready to turn its back upon a
broken man.

"When I saw by the notice in the papers that my beloved
wife was no more, I realised that for me the lamp is
shattered and the light of my life ex