hand on the knob.

Jamieson stepped forward. "Captain," he said with mock injury, "these
people"--he indicated the others--"do not mark the flight of the
minutes. I don't wonder--it's natural. But I, sir, I--having been asked
to breakfast by Mrs. Oliver--_do_. Is--is breakfast ready?"

"Breakfast is ready," Oliver answered. His voice was unsteady.

"Thank goodness for that!"

There was the sound of a faint cheer outside; then someone went rushing
up the plank walk before the house. The captain closed the windows.

"We shall give thanks for many things to-day," he said significantly.

Fraser started, and his eyelids fluttered what his face strove to
control.

"What's all that outside?" It was Marylyn, innocently.

But Oliver gave a quick sign, pulling nervously at his moustache.

"Frank," he began, "a--a friend is coming home to us this morning."

"A-a-ah!" It was near a groan.

"Wait--wait," firmly. "Give yourself a moment to guess. But--guess
something _good_."

Jamieson moved like a man in pain. "You mean, you mean----" he
whispered. "Oh, Captain, I've waited and waited."

"Bravely--we all know that. And there's reward for you."

Behind Jamieson, the others were leaning forward, hopeful, fearful--in a
fever of emotions.

The cheering outside had grown. More people were running up the
walk--children, men, bareheaded women.

"Jamieson," said the captain, "you'll be very calm?"

Jamieson relaxed, faltering forward. "I'll try! I'll try!" he promised.

Lounsbury caught him. "Tell him, Oliver," he begged.

The captain turned the knob, took Jamieson by a wrist and led him out
through the entry.

On the gallery was a second group. It whispered. It laughed. It cried.
It looked north to where the road came down from the landing.

"Easy now, easy," cautioned Oliver. He patted Jamieson, led him down the
steps, and faced him up the Line.

"There, my dear boy," he said.

On the upper edge of the parade-ground, the men of B Troop were
surrounding some travellers, caps in air. With their cheers mingled wild
shouts. And one of them was singing the lines of a song, fervent, loud
and martial:

"_Glory, glory, Hallelujah!
Glory, glory, Hallelujah!_"

For a moment, as one who questions his own sight and hearing, Jamieson
gazed before him. Then, he flung up his arms and sprang forward with a
great cry:

"Mother! mother! _Alice!_"

Down the Line they had taken up the singing. And to it, the troope