ease don't stay
on my account! I am used to being alone, and I can find my own way back."

"Oh no!" she said. "I had better come with you. I shan't be wanted now."

They started to walk back among the shocks of corn; but they had not gone
many yards when Gracie came running after them, reached them, flung her
arms about Avery.

"Good-bye, darling Avery!" she said.

Avery held her close. She was sobbing still, but the first wild anguish
of her grief was past.

"Good-bye, darling!" Avery whispered, after a moment.

Grade's arms tightened. "You think like Piers does?" she murmured. "You
think poor Mikey is happier now?"

Avery paused an instant. The memory of Piers' look as he had uttered the
words: "Choked with his own chain, poor devil!" seemed to grip her heart.
Then: "Yes, dearie," she said softly. "I think as Piers does. I am
glad--for poor Mikey's sake--that his troubles are over."

"Then I'll try and be glad too," sobbed poor Gracie. "But it's very, very
difficult. Pat and I loved him so, and he--he loved us."

"My dear, that love won't die," Avery said gently.

"The gift immortal," said Crowther. "The only thing that counts."

She looked round at him quickly, but his eyes were gazing straight into
the sunset--steadfast eyes that saw to the very heart of things.

"And Life in Death," he added quietly.

CHAPTER IV

THE PRISONER IN THE DUNGEON

Avery was already dressed when she heard Piers enter his room and say a
word to Victor. She stood by her window waiting. It was growing late, but
she felt sure he would come to her.

She heard Victor bustling about in his resilient fashion, and again
Piers' voice, somewhat curt and peremptory, reached her through the
closed door. He was evidently dressing at full speed. She was conscious
of a sense of disappointment, though she kept it at bay, reminding
herself that they must not keep their guest waiting.

But presently, close upon the dinner-hour, she went herself to the door
of her husband's room and knocked.

His voice answered her immediately, but it still held that unwonted
quality of irritation in it. "Oh, Avery, I can't let you in. I'm sorry.
Victor's here."

Something--a small, indignant spirit--sprang up within her in response.
"Send Victor away!" she said. "I want to come in."

"I shall be late if I do," he made answer. "I'm horribly late as it is."

But for once Avery's habitual docility was in abeyance. "Send Victor
away!" she reitera