A veranda, overhung by rambler roses, ran the full length of the front of the house.

Through the diamond panes of low lattice windows, the fitful glow of firelight gleamed.

The Lonely Man hesitated, half turned away, then, drawn by an irresistible attraction, stepped on to the veranda, stood in the shadow, and looked in at a window.

The room was so large, and its occupants so far from the windows, that the silent intruder had small need to fear detection.

His first furtive glance into the interior awakened, with a sudden throb, more strongly than ever before, that illusive sense of home.

He drew nearer.

A long, low room; the many windows running half the length of the veranda, a cushioned window seat beneath them. A door, on his left, opened on to the veranda. At the opposite side of the room, another door, standing ajar, led into a large hall. At the top of the room, on his right, a log fire burned in the huge fireplace. The leaping flames illumined the oak panelling and played on the carved beams in the ceiling. Persian rugs, in soft tints of blue and rose, lay upon the polished parquet.

A couch, on the further side of the fireplace, and at right-angles to it, faced the windows. In the centre, opposite the hearth, stood two large easy chairs.

These chairs were occupied by a young man in tweeds and shooting-boots—who lay back luxuriously with legs outstretched, as if long tramping in the heather had earned him a welcome rest—and by a very lovely girl, whose smiles and looks of happy tenderness were divided between the sturdy figure in the other chair, and a very small boy in Highland dress, who darted to and fro between them, trying to intercept a ball as they threw it to one another; a brave little figure, in tartan kilt and velvet jacket; his brown curls tumbled, his dark eyes shining, as he fell, over his father’s legs, headlong into his mother’s lap.

One casement stood open, and the lonely watcher could hear their merry laughter and the boy’s triumphant shout as he snatched the ball from his mother’s hand.

Holding it above his head, he danced out into the middle of the room, in full view of the windows.

The watching eyes narrowed in puzzled wonder.

Why was that leaping figure so familiar? The two in the chairs awakened no memories. The lovely woman, with her fair skin and coils of shining hair; the man, long-limbed, freckled and ruddy—total strangers both. Yet this child, who called them “Father” and “Mother,” this little dark head, brown, oval face, black, level brows? Where had he met the imp before?

His mind went back some twenty odd years to the Christmas after his eighth birthday. The kind Mayor had made a feast at the Townhall for the children from the Institution. They were given funny dresses to wear. A Highland dress was found for him, kilt and plaid and dirk complete. The little black velvet jacket had silver buttons with thistles on them. Some ladies talked about him. They said: “With those wonderful dark eyes and curls, he should have come as the Black Prince. Who is he?” They kissed him and gave him chocolates. He hated being kissed; but he liked the chocolates; and he liked being called the Black Prince. At one end of the hall there was a long mirror. He slipped away and stood before it. He had never before seen himself full length in a mirror. He held the box of chocolates above his head——

Why—yes! This little boy with the ball was an exact replica of the figure he had seen reflected in the mirror; a replica of himself.

He felt dizzy—shaken.

He was turning away; but at that moment, the hall beyond was illuminated.

Something moved across it.

A woman appeared in the open doorway—an arresting figure—a woman with snow-white hair, tall, stately, matronly; extraordinarily beautiful, with a calm, melancholy beauty; a woman well past middle age, yet with soft white skin, unwrinkled; upright carriage; a noble, gracious personality.

“In the dark, children?” she said; then put out her hand, and the room flashed into light.

“Grannie!” shouted the boy, and ran to meet her.

With her hand upon his shoulder, she moved slowly into the middle of the room.

The young man half rose, offering his chair.

“Do not move, Colin,” she said, and went to the couch.

The boy climbed up beside her, nestling his dark curls into the lace at her bosom. She put her arm about him with a gesture infinitely tender and protective.

The younger woman spoke. “Colin and I were lazing in the firelight, mother. Then Nigel arrived with his ball, and forced us to be energetic.”

The watcher at the window pressed closer to the pane. In the fascination of the scene he forgot to fear discovery.

By the brighter light the couple appeared older than he had at first thought them. She was probably his own age, even older; her husband, two or three years her senior. She had inherited her mother’s remarkable beauty. It was good to see them together. The one revealed the youthful loveliness of the past; the other promised the maturer beauty yet to come; and both were very good to look upon.

The man reclining in the chair between them, gazed intently at his own boots. He turned them from side to side, as the flame played upon them, and examined them critically. Then he thrust his hands deep into his breeches’ pockets, stretched his long legs to the fire, and stared at his boots with whole-hearted admiration.

For the first time in all the long years, the Lonely Man without, yearned to be within. His loneliness seized and shook him. All his searching, all his watching, all his hungry, forlorn hours, seemed to have reached their culmination. This—this, at last, was Home! Yet he stood outside, as a watcher from another world; he had no part nor lot in the love and comfort within.

His yearning gaze was fixed upon the central figure in the scene. Yes, she would always be the central figure in any scene. In court or cottage alike, she would be queen.

No wonder his little double dashed forward when she said: “In the dark, children?” If that voice could have called him, when he was a lonely little boy, how gladly he—who never came when he was called—would have shouted “Coming!” and flown to her embrace.

He looked at the dark head, so like his own, nestling against the softness of her breast. He could see her bosom rise and fall, in steady, rhythmic breathing, beneath the little olive cheek. Dark lashes veiled the bright brown eyes. Nigel was growing sleepy. What wonder, in such “sweet security.”

Nigel’s parents talked together.

She sat silent, looking down at the small face against her breast.

It struck him that there was an aloofness about her, a loneliness which almost matched his own. Tragedy had laid its mark upon that noble face; a sorrow borne in patient silence; an agony unshared; a grief too deep to be plumbed by human sympathy.

It seemed to the Lonely Man that his loneliness would be easier to bear, for having looked upon her; his “Returned Empty” life would hold more possibility of fulness; his “Glass with care” would be less sensitively brittle, for having seen the mastered tragedy in that calm face, crowned by the silvered hair.

One final look; then he must turn away and be lost again in the outer darkness.

His face was close against the glass. His hungry eyes peered through.

At that moment she raised her head, looked straight across to the window, and saw him.

He could not move.

He could not look away. Her eyes gazed into his; right into his, and held them.

She sat perfectly still.

The hand stroking little Nigel’s leg, paused.

The boy’s lashes lay upon his cheek. He stirred uneasily. The hand stroked again.

Her face blanched to ashen whiteness; then the delicate colour flooded it once more.

Still her eyes held him.

At last her lips moved, silently. They formed one word: “Wait.”

Presently she rose.

Nigel rubbed his eyes, leapt from the sofa, and found his ball.

She moved toward the window.

The man without stepped back into the shadow.

Nigel had flung the ball at his mother, and fallen over his father’s legs. The three were laughing and shouting together.

She came to the open casement, pushed it wider, and leaned out.

She spoke, very quietly, into the fragrant darkness; the faintest whisper, yet he heard.

“I was expecting you”.... Her voice was like the night-wind in the tops of the pine trees; soft as a sigh, and full of mystery. “Do not go.... You will find a chair in the corner on your right. Wait there until I am alone.”

She drew back into the room, and closed the casement.

He sank into the chair and sat there in the silence, listening to the beating of his heart. It sounded like heavy breakers pounding upon the rocks below.