o the obvious, for ever putting
off the evil moment, for ever temporising--from father to son, father to
son; generation after generation. Finally we come to Louis XVI. Read his
letters to the Comte d'Artois. They are the letters of a man who knows
the truth in his own heart and will not admit it even to himself."

"Yes," admitted Loo. "Yes--you are right. It is racial, one must
suppose."

And he glanced at Miriam, who did not meet his eyes but looked at the
open page, with a smile on her lips half sad, wholly tolerant.

Next morning, Loo thought, he would write to Dormer Colville. But the
following evening came, and he had not done so. He went, as usual, to
the rectory, where the same kind welcome awaited him. Miriam knew that
he had not written. Like him, she knew that an end of some sort must
soon come. And the end came an hour later.

Some day, Barebone knew, Dormer Colville would arrive. Every morning he
half looked for him on the seawall, between "The Black Sailor" and the
rectory garden. Any evening, he was well aware, the smiling face might
greet him in the lamp-lit drawing-room.

Sep had gone to bed earlier that night. The rector was reading aloud
an endless collection of letters, from which the careful student could
scarcely fail to gather side-lights on history. Both Miriam and Loo
heard the clang of the iron gate on the sea-wall.

A minute or two later the old dog, who lived mysteriously in the back
premises, barked, and presently the servant announced that a gentleman
was desirous of speaking to the rector. There were not many gentlemen
within a day's walk of the rectory. Some one must have put up at "The
Black Sailor." Theoretically, the rector was at the call of any of his
parishioners at all moments; but in practice the people of Farlingford
never sought his help.

"A gentleman," said Marvin, vaguely; "well, let him come in, Sarah."

Miriam and Barebone sat silently looking at the door. But the man who
appeared there was not Dormer Colville. It was John Turner.

He evinced no surprise on seeing Barebone, but shook hands with him with
a little nod of the head, which somehow indicated that they had business
together.

He accepted the chair brought forward by Marvin and warmed his hands
at the fire, in no hurry, it would appear, to state the reason for this
unceremonious call. After all, Marvin was his oldest friend and Miriam
his ward. Between old friends, explanations are often better omitted.