rred. I entered the house and went into the great room and flung
the heavy shutters wide, then stood and looked about me. Naught was
changed; it was as we had left it that wild November night. Even the
mirror which, one other night, had shown me Diccon still hung upon the
wall. Master Bucke had been seldom at home, perhaps, or was feeble and
careless of altering matters. All was as though we had been but an hour
gone, save that no fire burned upon the hearth.

I went to the table, and the books upon it were Jeremy Sparrow's: the
minister's house, then, had been his home once more. Beside the books
lay a packet, tied with silk, sealed, and addressed to me. Perhaps the
Governor had given it, the day before, into Master Bucke's care,--I do
not know; at any rate, there it lay. I looked at the "By the Esperance"
upon the cover, and wondered dully who at home would care to write to
me; then broke the seal and untied the silk. Within the cover there
was a letter with the superscription, "To a Gentleman who has served me
well."

I read the letter through to the signature, which was that of his Grace
of Buckingham, and then I laughed, who had never thought to laugh again,
and threw the paper down. It mattered naught to me now that George
Villiers should be grateful, or that James Stewart could deny a favorite
nothing. "The King graciously sanctions the marriage of his sometime
ward, the Lady Jocelyn Leigh, with Captain Ralph Percy; invites them
home"--

She was gone home, and I her husband, I who loved her, was left behind.
How many years of pilgrimage... how long, how long, O Lord?

The minister's great armchair was drawn before the cold and blackened
hearth. How often she had sat there within its dark clasp, the firelight
on her dress, her hands, her face! She had been fair to look upon; the
pride, the daring, the willfulness, were but the thorns about the rose;
behind those defenses was the flower, pure and lovely, with a heart of
gold. I flung myself down beside the chair, and, putting my arms across
it, hid my face upon them, and could weep at last.

That passion spent itself, and I lay with my face against the wood and
well-nigh slept. The battle was done; the field was lost; the storm
and stress of life had sunk into this dull calm, as still as peace, as
hopeless as the charred log and white ash upon the hearth, cold, never
to be quickened again.

Time passed, and at length I raised my head, roused suddenly to the