how
they fight. I supposed that the war lay between him and my
grandfather. But it seems he was fighting an idea all the
while; for here is my grandfather beaten and dead and gone; and
still the Vicar will give no quarter. If you had not assured
me that your demy-ship means eighty pounds a year, I could
believe that men fight for shadows only. Your mother and
grandmother are both well. . . ."

It was a raw December afternoon--within a week of the end of term--
and Taffy had returned from skating in Christ Church meadow, when he
found a telegram lying on his table. There was just time to see the
Dean, to pack, and to snatch a meal in hall, before rattling off to
his train. At Didcot he had the best part of an hour to wait for the
night-mail westward.

"_Your father dangerously ill. Come at once_."

There was no signature. Yet Taffy knew who had ridden to the office
with that telegram. The flying dark held visions of her, and the
express throbbed westward to the beat of Aide-de-camp's gallop.
Nor was he surprised at all to find her on the platform at Truro
Station. The Tredinnis phaeton was waiting outside.

He seemed to her but a boy after all, as he stepped out of the train
in the chill dawn: a wan-faced boy, and sorely in need of comfort.

"You must be brave," said she, gathering up the reins as he climbed
to the seat beside her.

Surely yes; he had been telling himself this very thing all night.
The groom hoisted in his portmanteau, and with a slam of the door
they were off. The cold air sang past Taffy's ears. It put vigour
into him, and his courage rose as he faced his shattered prospects,
shattered dreams. He must be strong now for his mother's sake; a man
to work and be leant upon.

And so it was that whereas Honoria had found him a boy, Humility
found him a man. As her arms went about him in her grief, she felt
his body, that it was taller, broader; and knew in the midst of her
tears that this was not the child she had parted from seven short
weeks ago, but a man to act and give orders and be relied upon.

"He called for you . . . many times," was all she could say.

For Taffy had come too late. Mr. Raymond was dead. He had
aggravated a slight chill by going back to his work too soon, and the
bitter draughts of the church had cut him down within sight of his
goal. A year before he might have been less impatient. The chill
struck into