r to live.

Presently she turned to her task of restoring the motto on the
fireboard. She worked vigorously, intently, and then leaned back to get
a better view.

Suddenly, as if they were alive, the words emerged from the last sweep
of the cloth.

"Aha, I am warm. I have seen the fire."

The meaning broke like sunshine from the clouds. It made Joan laugh.

"Well, of all the funny things," she said aloud, "and from the Bible,
too," for "Isaiah" was brought into evidence by another rub. "This house
is certainly haunted."

Just then a sharp knock on the panels of the door, set wide to the
sweet summer day, startled Joan and brought her to her feet, with that
quivering of the nerves that betokened an almost psychic state.

A tall man stood in the doorway. His clothes--good ones, well
fashioned--were wrinkled and travel stained. They gave the impression of
having been slept in. The man was like his garments--the worse for wear
but, originally, of good material.

Joan recognized that at once--after she got over the surprise of finding
that he was not Clive Cameron.

"Good morning," she said, quietly, while a familiarity about the
stranger puzzled her. "Come in and sit down, please."

The man came in, walking stiffly, his eyes fixed upon Joan in a way that
confused her. She felt that she ought to remember him, but could not.

"I've tied my horse down by the road," the stranger said, sitting down
by the long table, "I got the beast at the station. The distance was
longer than I imagined and the roads are--to say the least--not oiled."
He laughed and flecked the dust from his coat--still keeping his eyes on
Joan.

"Is your aunt at home?" he continued. So then, the man should be
recognized--but he still eluded Joan's memory.

"No, she is not. She will not be back for some time. I am sorry that I
cannot recall you--I am sure I have seen you--but----"

"You'd have a remarkable memory if you did recall me," there was a sneer
in the laugh that followed the words; "you were very young when you saw
me before. Perhaps I can help you--you are--Joan, are you not?"

"Yes." Joan sat down opposite the man--her hands were clasped close.

"I'm George Thornton, formerly of the Philippines, later of South
Africa, more recently of New York, where I stayed long enough to learn
my way here. Incidentally, I am your father."

Had Joan been standing she would have fallen. As it was, she quickly
overcame the dizziness that made th