his thoughts far
away. He had aged ten years and more in the last two. A very slight
sound, though from within the house, roused him in an instant and
brought him to his feet.

"I'm coming, mother, I'm coming," he called, and went indoors.
"I expect it's pretty nigh tea-time, isn't it?" he asked, with
affected cheerfulness; "the fire only wants a stir, and the kettle'll
boil in no time."

Patience nodded and took up the poker. She was very slow of speech
in those days, but it was a grand relief to know that she could speak
at all, and break the silence which had held her for weeks and months
after the stroke of paralysis which had seized her on that dreadful
day when Harry Lang had stolen Jessie from them.

Thomas, coming back from market that night, had found his wife
unconscious and helpless, and when at last she had recovered her
senses it was long before she could speak and explain something of
the terrible happenings of that afternoon; and even now, at the end
of two years, her speech was still thick and slow, and her limbs on
one side partially helpless.

Thomas spread the cloth on the table, and placed the china on it for
her to arrange. The old man waited on his wife like a mother on her
child, and nothing could exceed his patient devotion. With her he
was always bright and cheery, and only his bowed back and snow-white
hair and altogether aged appearance told of his own consuming grief
and anxiety.

He cut the bread and butter, and made the tea with all the deftness
of a woman. Patience watched him with the tears smarting behind her
lids. When he had filled their cups he sat down, facing the window,
and looking out along the garden to the little gate. They did not
talk much. Thomas's mind had gone back to that morning when he had
looked out and seen Daniel Magor at the gate with letters in his
hand--that wonderful letter which had so altered and beautified their
existence for a time, only to blight them both cruelly.

"I believe it's Miss Grace I see coming in," he said presently,
rousing with a start. "She's at the gate, and--yes, she's
unfastening it. I'll go and meet her."

On his way through the garden he saw a cat lazily basking on his best
wall-flower seedlings, and drove her away; the excitement of it
prevented his noticing the expression of Miss Grace's face, the
anxious, excited look in her eyes.

"Good-evening, Mr. Dawson," she said, as she came close. "I was at
the post office