nd bounded forward in
a wild delight that robbed it on the instant of its voice. It found it
anon and leapt about him, barking furious joy in spite of all his
vain endeavours to calm it. He grew afraid lest the dog should draw
attention. He knew not who--if any--might be in possession of his
house. The library, as he looked round, showed a scene of wreckage that
excellently matched the exterior. Not a picture on the walls, not an
arras, but had been rent to shreds. The great lustre that had hung
from the centre of the ceiling was gone. Disorder reigned along
the bookshelves, and yet there and elsewhere there was a certain
orderliness, suggesting an attempt to straighten up the place after
the ravagers had departed. It was these signs made him afraid the house
might be tenanted by such as might prove his enemies.

"Down, Jack," he said to the dog for the twentieth time, patting its
sleek head. "Down, down!"

But still the dog bounded about him, barking wildly.

"Sh!" he hissed suddenly. Steps sounded in the hall. It was as he
feared. The door was suddenly thrown open, and the grey morning light
gleamed upon the long barrel of a musket. After it, bearing it, entered
a white-haired old man.

He paused on the threshold, measuring the tall disordered stranger who
stood there, his figure a black silhouette against the window by which
he had entered.

"What seek you here, sir, in this house of desolation?" asked the voice
of Mr. Wilding's old servant.

He answered but one word. "Walters!"

The musket dropped with a clatter from the old man's hands. He sank back
against the doorpost and leaned there an instant; then, whimpering and
laughing, he came tottering forward--his old legs failing him in this
excess of unexpected joy--and sank on his knees to kiss his master's
hand.

Wilding patted the old head, as he had patted the dog's a little while
ago. He was oddly moved; there was a knot in his throat. No home-coming
could well have been more desolate. And yet, what home-coming could have
brought him such a torturing joy as was now his? Oh, it is good to be
loved, if it be by no more than a dog and an old servant!

In a moment Walters was himself again. He was on his feet, scrutinizing
Wilding's haggard face and disordered, filthy clothes. He broke into
exclamations between dismay and reproach, but these Wilding interrupted
to ask the old man how it happened that he had remained.

"My son John was a sergeant in the t