Joan's handful

CHAPTER XXII

HEART TO HEART

IT was spring again, but Cecil was not back. Lady Alicia and she were now doing the Italian lakes together, and Cecil's letters, though few and far between, were very happy in tone. Joan's mind for the present was at rest about her. Life was getting easier. The last of the back debts was paid, and Joan felt that she could now hold her head up and look the whole world in the face. She started out for a walk one day with her terrier, in a very happy frame of mind. Her old, discontented longings for a larger sphere of influence and work had left her. She realised now that there were individuals all round her who were as precious in their Creator's sight as those far-away, and she cheerfully set to work to find out their various needs. The villagers loved her. There was not a house which did not welcome her warmly, and men and women besides the children learnt to confide to her all their difficulties and troubles.

Crossing the heath, she met an old shepherd who was a special friend of hers, and for some minutes she stayed gossiping with him; then, going across to a little knoll under some pines, she seated herself on a fallen log, and, gazing down upon the smiling valleys below, she fell into a reverie.

Her thoughts took her back to Ireland. She had heard from Major Armitage once or twice through the winter. He was still managing his sister's estate, and the unsettled state of Ulster, with the apprehension of civil war, was keeping them engrossed with their own affairs.

She was startled suddenly by the furious barking of her little terrier. Looking up, she saw approaching her the object of her thoughts, and she sprang to her feet with a little exclamation of astonishment and pleasure. He shook hands with her with great energy.

"Now, what a marvellous coincidence!" he said. "I had no idea I should meet you out here, but my whole thoughts were with you, and I was planning an interview with you."

"But why plan?" said Joan, laughing. "You had only to walk up to the rectory to receive a hearty welcome. I am astonished to see you. Have you been over here long?"

"I came last night. Some business with my tenants brought me. And I came out this afternoon to get away from everybody."

Joan was silent. She looked up at him, and then turned her eyes away, for he was standing close to her, leaning against a tree trunk, and his eyes told her why he wanted to see her. She tried to still the throbbing in her heart and veins; she tried to keep a cool, clear head; but she was mentally asking herself this one question over and over again:

"Does he care for me?"

"I had to think matters out," he went on slowly. "As you know, I lived in a world of dreams when I was here before. I lived upon one hope, one idea; and when it was shattered, I wished I had been shattered with it. I have been through my house this morning, and in every room I sought to raise up the ghost of my vision; but it would not come. And the strange part of it is that I would not welcome it if it did. I buried it when I was here before; and time and reason have convinced me that my heart and affection are free to offer to another. The past is absolutely gone. You may think me fickle, but from the time I knew that she was willing, and rightly willing, to cleave to the one she had promised to love and live with, I never had any more desire to win her.

"And now, Miss Adair, I come to you. I am conscious that my circumstances and my past are against me; but as you are never out of my thoughts by day or night, I thought you would let me tell you so. I have come over from Ireland, not only to see my tenants, but to see you. I don't want your friendship; I want something more; and I do ask you not to answer quickly. I am afraid that you will feel I have no right to ask you so soon, that I cannot care deeply enough; but I have learnt to care for you so much that nothing else in the world seems worth living for."

Joan sat very still. Her heart wanted to answer him at once, her head cautioned delay. How could she leave her father? She could not see a way out. At last she looked up.

Major Armitage was white and stern, his lips were set determinedly together, but his eyes were almost wistful. He tried to smile as he met her gaze.

"Well!" he said with a quick-caught breath. "Do you see anything in me worth your love? I don't myself, and I'm steeling myself to bear a refusal."

"Oh!" said Joan impulsively. "I can't give you that. I care too much already. But I am thinking of my father."

"Do you really care for me, Joan?"

He bent over her eagerly, then took hold of both of her hands and drew her gently up towards him.

"Joan, if you care, as I care, no one on earth has a right to separate us."

Strong man as he was, he trembled with emotion; but Joan stood very still with his arm round her. The moment to her was almost a sacred one. Just for an instant her head rested on his broad shoulder.

"No," she whispered; "they will not be able to."

Then he bent his head, knowing that he had won her, and his lips touched hers, sealing the compact.

A few moments after, he and she were sitting together on the fallen tree. His face was radiant with happiness; she was very quiet, but deeply, enchantingly content.

"Joan, Joan, have you cared about me long? Tell me when you first thought anything about me?"

"Oh," she said, "how can I say? I liked and admired you, and felt intensely sorry for you from the very beginning. I was honoured by your friendship; but I suppose when it really came home to me that my heart had escaped out of my own keeping was when we were walking back from that little church over the hills in Ireland. I felt I should like nothing better than to go on walking with you for ever!"

"And that was the night I wanted to speak to you. I tried to do so, if you remember, but I felt I could not. I was so terribly afraid of being repulsed, and I thought it was too soon. I funked putting my fate to the test. I cannot believe in my good fortune even now."

They talked on as lovers have done from time immemorial, and at last Joan made a move.

"I must go to Father. He will be wanting his tea. I don't know what to do about telling him. He often says he hopes I shall marry; but I don't know if he really means it."

"May I come back with you?"

"Of course."

They found the rector pacing the drive. He was delighted to see Major Armitage again. When Joan ran on into the house to make the tea, the Major spoke.

"Mr. Adair, I have come back because I could not keep away any longer. I am afraid you may not welcome me so warmly when you know my errand. I want to take away Joan from you."

Mr. Adair drew in his breath.

"Ah, dear! It has come at last, then!"

"Will you give her to me?"

"What does Joan say? But I need not ask. She is a good girl, Major—too good to remain single all her life. I believe in women marrying; but I shall be lost, quite lost, without her!"

"We have not talked over matters yet," said Major Armitage sympathetically; "but when I can leave my sister, I mean to come back and live here. And if I did that, could not Joan still keep a good bit of her parish work and still help you?"

Mr. Adair's downcast face brightened at once.

"Capital! You have your music, and Joan is too energetic to like a life of ease without any work to keep her from rusting. I know this, Major, there isn't a soul on earth I would like as a son-in-law better than yourself. I know you will make my girl happy."

He went straight into the drawing-room, where Joan sat over the tea tray with hot cheeks and bright eyes, and patted her affectionately on the shoulder.

"I have been told, Joan dear, and I shall be glad in your happiness. I know Major Armitage, and can trust you to him."

Joan's eyes filled with sudden tears.

"He is such a dear, I couldn't help losing my heart to him," she said. Then, as her lover came into the room, she brushed her tears away and smiled radiantly up into his face.

They were a very happy little party, but Major Armitage did not stay to dinner. He was expecting a visit from some of his tenants at six o'clock, and had to be home to meet them.

Joan walked down the drive with him when he went.

"Will you come over my house with me to-morrow morning?" he asked her. "I'll come and fetch you if I may."

"I can't fling my duties to the winds," she said, looking up at him and laughing. "I am going to the school to-morrow at ten, but at eleven I shall be free."

"Then I shall be here at eleven."

At the gate, under the shadow of the old yew tree, he took her into his arms again.

"I can't believe you are going to belong to me," he said. "What a happy man I shall be!"

"I hope I shall bring happiness to you," she responded. "I want to do it; I have always thought that you wanted a woman to look after you."

He gave a quick little shake of his head.

"That is not the view you ought to take. I am happy because I mean to care for you and to wait upon you and to give you a good time. You have always been so busy looking after other people that you have never given yourself a thought."

Joan laughed softly.

"I have hitherto gloried in my independence; but love alters everything, does it not?"

When he had left her, Joan leant her arms on the gate and watched him out of sight, and then she raised her face to the evening sky.

   "Oh, God! I thank Thee. Bless us both, and make us blessings to one another."

Before she went to bed that night, she had a long talk with her father.

Mr. Adair, though he still asserted stoutly that he was very pleased, had great heart sinkings about the future; and Joan wisely made him voice his fears.

"I will not leave you, Dad dear, until the way seems easy. Sophia is a host in herself, I know."

"Oh, Sophia is a capital housekeeper," her father said hurriedly. "She will make me comfortable, and I shall not wish selfishly to spoil your life, my dear. It is the thought of Cecil reigning here in your stead that appals me. I assure you it was an awful time when you were in Ireland! If it were not for Cecil, I should jog on pretty well."

"But, Father dear, if I marry, you must remember that we still live in your parish. I shall hope to play the organ, and run the Sunday school, and do all the club accounts. You will not be left without my help."

Mr. Adair looked at her very gravely.

"That is a comforting way of putting it; but remember, Joan, if a woman marries, her husband and her household must and ought to be her first interest. Never let your work come between your husband and yourself."

Joan knew why he spoke so emphatically.

"I don't think Major Armitage is a selfish man," she said musingly. "He has lived so long without home comforts that he will not be exacting. And he has resources in himself, and real work to do; for he considers his music a gift given to him to use for the benefit of others. Oh, I have already weighed it in my mind, and as long as you want my help in the parish, I mean to give it to you."

She sat up late that night writing to Cecil and Lady Alicia.

When Sophia heard the news, she was not so congratulatory as she might have been.

"Whatever will Mr. Derrick say? And I do hope, Miss Joan, that you aren't getting a crank for a husband. There be no doubt about it as he has behaved very strange. Certainly, M'ria says she has no complaints to make after that death occurred. I suppose it did occur?"

"I think I had better tell you the whole story, Sophia," said Joan patiently.

And when she had finished her account, Sophia gave a sniff.

"Well, we must hope you'll be happy with him, but I consider a fancy for another woman, even if it comes to nought, takes the bloom off a man, so to speak. Now, Mr. Derrick has never altered from the time he were a boy. 'Twas Miss Joan first and foremost, and there was none her equal."

"Mr. Derrick is a dear boy," said Joan; "but Major Armitage is—Oh, I can't describe him, Sophia, but he is wound round my heart, and to be in the same room with him thrills me through and through."

Sophia could say no more. She looked at Joan in a pitying way, and when she was left alone in her kitchen, muttered to herself:

"It's a good thing for me that no man has ever made me thrill. Poor Miss Joan be but a child, after all said and done, and 'tis to be hoped she won't live to change her mind when 'tis too late!"

The sun was shining full on the old weather-beaten house as Joan and Major Armitage walked up to it the next morning.

She looked at it with an absorbing interest. This was to be her future home. How little she had thought when she stood there last that she would be the means of bringing the waiting house to its fulfilment.

She went back in thought to the words its owner had spoken:

"My house and I wait."

As they mounted the old stone steps, she glanced up at her lover. She remembered his determination that no woman's foot should cross his threshold till the one for whom he was waiting should come. For the first time a touch of jealousy clouded her mind—jealousy lest the remembrance of the woman who had formerly so obsessed him should recur to him here and now. He was looking straight before him, and not at her; but when they reached the big door, he paused, and then his eyes met hers and the smile spread all over his stern, set face.

"This is an unlucky house," he said. "Do you believe that the strength of our love will break that spell?"

Joan caught her breath, then light and colour swept into her face; she slipped her arm into his. "Let me tell you something which has just flashed into my mind before we go in. I know the superstition about your house, that no luck will come to those living in it until it reverts to the Rollestons. Do you know that Cecil and my mother discovered that we are directly descended from one of the daughters of this house, a certain Gertrude Rolleston?"

"What an extraordinary coincidence! You must tell me the details. I have the Rolleston genealogy in my library; we will look it up. But, Joan, my dearest, there would be no spot on earth which would not be sanctified and blessed by your presence!"

Then very solemnly he raised his hat before he opened the door.

"May the God who instituted marriage bless us both on the threshold of our home, and lift up the light of His countenance upon us and give us peace."

After that Joan felt as if the stepping across the threshold was a sacrament. Certainly, she assured herself, Major Armitage was different from any other man in the world. And when she had crossed the threshold, he stooped and kissed her.

Maria came bustling across the hall to greet them. She was tremulous with excitement and emotion.

Joan shook her by the hand very warmly.

"Eh, Miss Adair, this be a happy moment to me, and Sophia's loss will be my gain!"

"There!" said Major Armitage cheerily. "What prettier or truer speech can you expect than that, Joan?"

Then he led her up the stairs to the music-room.

"I have laid the ghosts here," he said. Then, pointing to the old-fashioned fireside, he added:

"I used to dream as I sat there alone in the evenings that a woman in a soft silk dress might one day sit opposite me and talk and laugh as I smoked my pipe. But latterly that woman's face grew misty and finally disappeared. Now I see it again, a fair, sweet face, the sweetest in the world to me, with deep, true, tender blue eyes and a smile that always brings two distracting dimples into play, and hair full of sunshine. Don't stop me. I see her clasping her hands round her knee—it is a way she has—and showing me by turns her eager, earnest soul, her boundless patience and sympathy, her sweet, reverent faith in all that touches the unseen world."

"I must stop your rhapsody," said Joan, half laughing but much moved. "My cheeks are hot with such flattery. Show me your piano and books."

He did so, and then led her along the corridor to a locked door. He unlocked it and showed her the dainty little boudoir, which had all been renovated and cleaned and made fit for use.

A shadow came into Joan's eyes as she looked at it. She felt almost as a second wife might feel when being shown the belongings of the first.

"You must tell me truly," she said, impulsively turning to him. "Does this room remind you of the one for whom it was meant? I don't think I could be happy here."

He wheeled round, drew her out of the room and turned the key in the lock.

"Then you shall not have it," he said. "Joan, sweetest, I told you I had laid my ghosts, but if they are there for you, I will dismantle the room at once. There are plenty of others to choose from. Look! I shall give you this one over the west wing; you will see the sunsets; and you shall furnish it as you please."

He drew her into a quaint octagonal room, with a window overlooking the heath and distant hills. Joan knew she would love it the instant she was inside, and she was content.

Then they wandered through the rest of the house and made many plans. When Joan eventually came away, she said to him:

"I feel I shall be taking all and giving nothing."

To which, of course, Major Armitage replied:

"You are giving me the priceless gift of your own sweet self, the only gift in this wide world that is worth anything to me!"

CHAPTER XXIII

THE LUCK OF ROLLESTON COURT

THE neighbourhood was very much surprised when it heard the news. Banty was too taken aback to congratulate Joan.

"I didn't know you liked him," she said bluntly. "He has been so unsociable and cranky that none of us has seen much of him. I hope you'll get on with him, Joan. He isn't good enough for you."

It was a trial to Joan to be constantly made aware of the fact of Major Armitage's unpopularity. There is nothing a country village hates more than reticence and exclusiveness. The poor consider that if anybody shuts himself away from society, there is something to hide, and that something is most likely criminal. The rich resent their overtures of friendship being repulsed. Major Armitage himself was supremely indifferent to it all, but for Joan's sake, he made an effort and accepted an invitation to dine at the Hall. It was the beginning of a little more sociable intercourse between himself and his neighbours, and the fact of his engagement led many to make fresh endeavours to know him.

In due time, Joan received letters from Lady Alicia and from Cecil.

Cecil's was characteristic of her.

   "MY DEAR JOAN,—

   "I suppose I must send congratulations. I have to readjust my estimate of you. I should have said from my lifelong knowledge of you that you would have cheerfully sacrificed yourself at duty's or Father's shrine and refused to leave your sphere of work. But I am glad for your sake that you have been sensible. I, of course, pity myself exceedingly. Will Father expect me to slip into your shoes? They never did fit me, and never will. But I am not home yet, and 'things may happen,' as we used to say when we were small. I am much amused at you and the Major coming together. Did I not propose it to you? I hope you will make him less uncanny than he was. Of course, you have told him of our descent from the Rollestons? You will bring back the luck to his house. He ought to be very grateful to you for liking him. I wonder if you are really in love. I can't imagine you! You are so sane, so wise, that it does not seem to be your role.

"Love,

"Your affectionate sister,

"CECIL."

   "P.S.—I have read this over, and it doesn't sound quite nice. I wonder why? But I can't gush over the engagement, for I don't know Major Armitage. I can only wish you happiness."

Joan's face became rather downcast as she read this. She did not know that Cecil was sore and bitter since her broken engagement, and angry with Joan in an unreasonable way for her present happiness.

Lady Alicia's letter brought warmth and comfort at once. She allayed the scruples that were always troubling Joan's sensitive conscience.

   "It is right, dear, that you should marry when you love, and when that one, like Randal Armitage, is worthy of your love. Your father will be far happier in feeling your future provided for and in seeing your happiness. If you were to sacrifice all your future for the sake of being for a few years a help to your father, the time would be certain to come when you and he would regret it; and I think your circumstances will be wonderfully favourable to you."

Derrick also wrote to Joan.

   "DEAR OLD CHUM,—

   "Hearty congratulations is the conventional phrase, is it not? I congratulate him on getting you, and for the rest—well, I don't bear him malice, and if you're happy, that's the main thing. I'm going on the Continent for a holiday. My respects to Dominie, and if I meet the Malingerer, will let you know how she is faring. Adieu.

"Yours,

"DERRICK."

"Poor Derrick!" sighed Joan. "How I hope he will forget and marry!"

Yet, though she said this, it was a tremendous shock to her, a month later, to get another letter from Cecil.

"I suppose," she wrote, "your engagement made me restless and unsettled. We are now at Lucerne, and, to our amazement, one day Derrick walked in. As he has always been one of the family, he and I went about a good bit together. We have talked you and the village threadbare, and at last, as we had nothing else to do, we made up our minds that we would try to follow your example. You see, he and I have both been foiled in our first experience, so we can feel for each other. He knows I am not domesticated; but I feel I could run a London flat and make it a success. And we don't jar on each other. In fact, I have a wonderful sense of rest in his company. I know I could help him in his work, and am determined that he shall be an M.P. very soon, and later on Prime Minister at least. Well, all this rigmarole means that we're engaged, and as we've known each other all our lives, we mean to marry straight away. I could not face wedding bells in Old Bellerton village. Lady Alicia is a trump; she has been as anxious as a mother over us. She talked to him and talked to me, and warned us not to be in such haste. But we've got her on our side now, so make your mind easy over us. Derrick will like to hear what your views are about our match. Write him one of your nicest letters."

Joan went to her father, who was as astonished as she and very delighted.

Joan herself was honestly and deeply thankful. At first she was almost afraid that both of them were plunging into matrimony more from expediency than from real love or liking for each other; yet she remembered how Derrick had always admired Cecil's dainty grace and beauty, and though he had teased her unmercifully, Cecil had never resented it, but invariably showed the best side of her nature to him.

But the speedy marriage made her anxious; and she thought Cecil's indifference to her home and her father a bad beginning for her married life. Derrick wrote to Joan in a day or two.

   "I'm doing all there remains to be done. I have lost you for good. I want to marry and settle down; and Cecil and I suit each other as well as most people, and a good deal better. The Malingerer has died; in her stead is an exceedingly beautiful and attractive woman. I shall be the model husband, and she will daily be moulded to my will. Joking apart, we are going to be happy; but I always and for ever intend to remain,—

"Your old chum,

"DERRICK."

"I always wanted him as a son," said Mr. Adair, "but I hoped you would marry him, Joan. Do you think Cecil will make his home happy?"

"I am sure she will," said Joan stoutly. "Cecil has a heart and depths which as yet have not been reached. She will develop as a married woman."

Cecil's marriage was the means of postponing Joan's. She was not in haste to leave her home, and Major Armitage felt obliged to go over to Ireland to his sister again. He much wanted Joan to accompany him, but she steadfastly refused.

"My father wants me. I will not leave him yet."

The summer slipped by. In the middle of it, Cecil and Derrick came for a visit, and the visit was a complete success.

All Cecil's old irritability and laziness seemed to have disappeared. She was full of the little flat in town which was going to be their home. She was gentle and considerate to her father, very affectionate to Joan.

And one day she told her, with a burst of confidence, that she was going to make religion a power in her life.

"Derrick is really good, you know, though he never talks about it. And Lady Alicia lived her religion every day, like you do. I am going to read my Bible every day and say a prayer."

"Oh, Cecil!" said Joan, half amused, half sad. "I hope you will get farther than that."

"I heard of Motty when we were staying in town," said Cecil, turning the subject. "That American girl didn't marry him, and he has left them and is touring round America with a spiritualist and his wife. He will never keep at anything long. It's a great pity, for he has brains and is a fascinating talker."

"I am so thankful you did not marry him," said Joan. "I prayed that you might not."

"Oh, how wickedly unkind I should have thought you if I had known that at the time. But it has all turned out for the best. Joan, my dear, tell me truly, does your heart ever fail you as you think of settling down in this small corner of the world for good and all? Won't it be an awfully dull, monotonous life?"

"I should have thought so once," Joan responded; "but I have learnt to look at life differently. I suppose I used to long for power and the sphere for using it, but I am content now. And you must remember I have my writing, and my friends, and my parish work, and, last of all, my husband. My life will be quite as full as yours."

"Well, you must come up and see me when you want waking up; and I will come and see you when I want peace and quiet."

And that compact was made between them before Cecil left for town.

Two years have slipped by.

It is a cold, frosty day in December.

In a big easy chair by the fire in the music-room of Rolleston Court sits Joan. There is a wonderfully soft and radiant look in her face as she looks down upon a little bundle of clothes upon her knee. The firelight flickers on tiny, helpless fingers clutching the air, and as the mother bends her face lower and moves a Shetland shawl, a pair of big blue eyes look expectantly up at her. Such a wee face, with a round, sturdy chin and red, soft lips, and a brow that reminds her of Randal.

And then the door opens and in strides Major Armitage. Marriage has erased the gloomy lines in his face and given him a spring in his walk, an eagerness in his voice, and a free and upright carriage. He stoops over Joan and gives her a kiss, inspects his son and heir, then sinks into the other big chair on the opposite side of the hearth and heaves a sigh of relief. The sparkle comes into his eyes as he glances across at Joan.

"I've been to the other side of the heath to see the new cottages. Young Garton was there, and gave me somewhat sheepish thanks. I told him he deserved to have a wife and home; and I told him, too, that I had learnt the value of them. Joan, dearest, how few dreams come true in life! Yet mine has. I have you there sitting opposite to me, ready to comfort, to advise, or to—"

"Scold," put in Joan with her dimpling smile. "And now here is a third coming to demand our care and attention. Oh, Randal, I have been thinking big thoughts this afternoon. What a wonderful thing motherhood is! What an awful responsibility! This little creature in my arms now occupying his position as a future citizen of our Empire, all his gifts and powers, that will be for good or evil in his future life, wrapped up dormant in his tiny brain. And we have the training of him, the making of him. I want him to be a great man, strong, purposeful, pure, honourable, and high principled."

An interruption came.

Banty, in her rough tweeds, walking with something of her old vigour, though with a limp, entered the room.

"I have interrupted a happy family party," she said brightly; "but I've come to see my godson."

Major Armitage pulled forward a chair for her. If his tête-à-tête with his wife was brought abruptly to a conclusion, he was too courteous a gentleman to allow his disappointment to be seen. Banty was always welcome, and she knew it.

After a little time, he left the women together and went off to the smoking-room. Joan put the baby into Banty's arms, and the girl held him with some delight and a little anxiety.

"I'm not so used to nursing as you are," she said; "don't laugh at my awkwardness. It seems so ridiculous to think of you with a child, Joan."

"Does it? It seems the most natural thing in the world to me. And yet, as I was saying just now, he will make a big difference in my life."

"You won't have so much time for your writing or for the parish."

"My parish work seems drifting away," said Joan. "My father told me yesterday that he had hardly missed me since I was laid up, for you have proved such a good substitute."

Banty looked pleased.

"It's all I have to do. It gives me the excuse of getting out of the house. You're a lucky woman, Joan."

Joan looked quickly at her.

"What is at the back of that speech?"

"Nothing. A wave of restless discontent takes possession of me sometimes, when I think that I shall live on in this village all my life, doing the same things and seeing the same people."

"Yes, I know. I used to feel the same. I longed to be in the rush of life; but I think I have learned to be content."

"What did you want to do?"

"To be the head of some big school or training college, where I could train and influence the rising generation. That was my ideal when I was at college and when I left it. I did get the offer of being senior mistress in an important school, but I could not be spared. It was not to be. You see, I wanted big things for myself, and was given small. I have been trying to learn to be faithful in the little things of life."

"I don't know about little things," said Banty musingly. "I think you have done some big things amongst us. If you had not been here, I should either have blown my brains out or have become a useless, whining invalid. And a good many in the village owe you much. What a change you have wrought in Major Armitage! You have a wonderful influence with everyone with whom you come in contact."

"We all have influence, Banty," Joan said quickly. "You have a great many guests coming and going at your home. You can help others as you say you have been helped. Yours is not a small life at all; and there are the Chronicles!"

Laughter was in her eyes as she added this.

Banty smiled.

"I'm beginning to have sympathy with Motty. They are endless, perfectly endless! I go into the library and shut myself up there as a penance when I have been cross to Mother or furious with my maid. I peg away at them, and suppose they'll be finished some time; but it is not very elevating work. I am not as proud of our family history as father is. Oh, I am content, on the whole, Joan. But sometimes I look forward. An old maid's life!"

"My dear Banty, you are not upon the shelf yet."

Banty laughed a little scoffingly.

"Who would want to marry a cripple? And I don't think I shall ever be taken with any man now. I feel a hundred years old sometimes, when I see an otter hunt sweep by in the meadows below us, or hear the hounds. And then—well, I come back to your verse, which you have practised to such success. I wonder if I shall be helped to do so too. I believe I shall."

When Banty had left, and the nurse had come for the baby, Joan still sat on in the firelight. In thought she was reviewing her life within the past few years—the life of an ordinary girl in a country village. Yet she would not now have had it different. She started when her husband's voice sounded again in her ear.

"Are you dreaming? Shall I play to you?"

"Please."

He went to a beautiful little organ worked by electricity, and the full soft tones of an anthem of his own setting brought a wonderful hush and peace to Joan's spirit.

   "The Lord thy God bare thee, as a man doth bear his son, in all the way that ye went, until ye came into this place."

And then he sang the words, and Joan joined him softly under her breath.