ng the rather
weary-looking man.

"Till half-past five this morning," he replied, in a somewhat
preoccupied voice.

There was a sad look in his eyes, too, which his grandmother partly
understood. She knitted another round of her sock and then said:

"Have you seen Tom Craigie yet?"

"Yes, last night I came across him," replied Brian. "He told me she had
come home. They traveled by night and got in early yesterday morning."

"Poor little thing!" sighed old Mrs. Osmond. "What a home-coming it must
have been?"

"Grannie," said Brian, pushing back his chair and drawing nearer to the
fire "I want you to tell me what I ought to do. I have a message to her
from her mother, there was no one else to take it, you know, except the
landlady, and I suppose she did not like that. I want to know when I
might see her; one has no right to keep it back, and yet how am I to
know whether she is fit to bear it? I can't write it down, it won't
somehow go on to paper, yet I can hardly ask to see her."

"We cannot tell that the message might not comfort her," said Mrs.
Osmond. Then, after a few minutes' thought she added: "I think, Brian,
if I were you, I would write her a little note, tell her why you want to
see her, and let her fix her own time. You will leave it entirely in her
own hands in that way."

He mused for a minute, seemed satisfied with the suggestion, and
moving across to the writing table, began his first letter to his love.
Apparently it was hard to write, for he wasted several sheets and much
time that he could ill afford. When it was at length finished, it ran as
follows:

"Dear Miss Raeburn,--I hardly like to ask to see you yet for fear you
should think me intrusive, but a message was entrusted to me on Tuesday
night which I dare not of myself keep back from you. Will you see me?
If you are able to, and will name the time which will suit you best, I
shall be very grateful. Forgive me for troubling you, and believe me,
Yours faithfully, Brian Osmond."

He sent it off a little doubtfully, by no means satisfied that he had
done a wise thing. But when he returned from his rounds later in the day
the reply set his fears at rest.

It was written lengthways across a sheet of paper; the small delicate
writing was full of character, but betrayed great physical exhaustion.

"It is good of you to think of us. Please come this afternoon if you are
able. Erica."

That very afternoon! Now that his wish was granted, now t