ce."

"How does he look?" she asked suddenly. "I have always remembered him
as he used to be, and yet, of course, he must be changed."

"His hair is white," said Philippa gently; "but he looks young in spite
of that. He is so slim and upright--not like a man of his age."

"And his face?" Isabella asked the question almost in a whisper.

"He bears a dreadful scar, but I do not think it alters his expression.
It leaves his features quite untouched."

Isabella drew a long breath. "Ah!" she murmured, "how often I have
dreaded lest he should be dreadfully disfigured. His face was so
beautiful," she added pathetically.

They sat for a long time hand in hand, each occupied with her own
thoughts. Outside the rain dripped with a plaintive sound, but
overhead the sparrows twittered cheerfully under the eaves. The clouds
were drifting away to the west like some dark horde driven from the
field by the shimmering spears of the sunlight which pierced them. A
tender expanse of blue sky spoke a promise of fairer weather, a promise
repeated by the satisfied hum of the bees who had once more ventured
out to pursue their daily labours. The air was full of sweet
scents--fragrant earth and fragrant blossom made all the sweeter by the
cleansing shower.

To Philippa in the fullness of her youthful strength and beauty there
was something profoundly touching in the simple way in which Isabella
had recounted the story of her life. There was a nobility in the
confession. This woman--no longer young, with her grey hair and plain
rugged features--stating quite honestly that all the love of her youth
had been supported on ropes of gossamer, woven when she was at an age
for dreams.

What is the age for dreams? Ah, who can tell? Let us pray that to
those who dream the awakening comes not too soon; and that when it
comes, as in this world it must, they may preserve a measure of the
dream radiance to light them to that greater awakening when all tears
shall be wiped away.

Isabella had made no appeal for sympathy, had not suggested that there
was any room for pity. She did not wish to forget.

Into Philippa's heart there crept a faint realisation of the infinite
power and the infinite patience of a great love, and with it a longing,
half wistful, half eager, that she too might one day know its thrall.
Francis Heathcote had loved, and his love had survived years of
darkness and longing, but there had been plighted vows and lover