Noon the next day found them over England, searching out one of the aviation fields that had been arranged at frequent intervals since the end of the Great War.

Airships of all sorts were so commonly used that this was a necessity. All Country Clubs had them, as well as extra hangars for visitors. At most fields there were instructors, most of them American, just as golf instructors are almost always Scotch. And the finest fields had wide exercise fields where beginners and children could potter around in safety.

At one side of the aviation fields ran a low line of sheds for motors where men driving out from the city could lock and leave the cars they had come in while they were aloft in the airplanes or dirigibles, though dirigibles were but little used, on account of their size and expense. Even the small racing dirigibles like Mr. Ridgeway’s pair, and the one Van Arsdale had owned, were not common. It was like approaching in a state chariot, Lawrence found, and he commenced to understand that the use of the big balloon had been partly to impress the Moranians and the republic.

At least twenty slim, graceful planes were flying here and there as they commenced to descend to the field, and quite a flock of them, bright and saucy, flitted round them as they went down. In the distance, they could see brightly clad little figures trotting around the golf course, and nearer, on the tennis courts, groups of what looked like dancing dolls hopped and pranced over the smooth surfaces.

“Makes me homesick to see all those planes,” said Bill.

“Awful poor pilots, most of ’em!” Hank replied, watching a monoplane go jerking around just above the ground. “Look at that! Oh, lordy! Well, he did miss the Club House, didn’t he? But I bet the mortar is peeling out from them stones from fright. Must be a kid at the wheel. No, by gummy, see the old duck steerin’?”

And as the plane careened near them, Hank leaned out and flung hot words of scorn and advice after the uncertain holder of the wheel.

“Poor old dear!” said Hank. “Don’t you suppose he ain’t got no folks? He ought to have some grandchildren or somebody that loves him, that ought to keep him with his feet on the ground where he belongs. There he goes again! See the leaves he clipped out of that oak tree. Well, I can’t look! I just can’t watch and see him destroyed.”

“He’s going down,” said Bill, looking after the careening plane. “He does lay a queer course.”

“Queer course!” exclaimed Bill. “If it was so you could run a trail behind him, it would look like a ball of rickrack braid after a kitten had played with it.”

After the dirigible had been secured, the party started over to the Club House where Mr. Ridgeway hoped to get a motor. Bill and Hank sauntered along in the rear.

“There’s that precious old Methuselah that was reelin’ around in the plane,” said Hank suddenly. “I got a mind to go tell him what I think.”

“Don’t butt in!” advised Bill. “Remember what you just went through back there in Morania. That old bird may be the Emperor of Switzerland for all you know!”

Hank seized a passing caddie. “Hey, kid!” he ordered, “who is that old chunk of trouble amblin’ along there in the giddy plaids?”

The caddie looked.

“Over there?” he asked. “With the eyeglass?”

“The same!” said Hank. “Now whose grandpappy is he?”

“That’s his grace the Duke of Mountjoy and Pewanit,” said the boy glibly, “and he is waving to the Prime Minister.”

“Thanks!” said Hank. He passed on, and after a moment lifted up his voice in a sort of chant.

“And the folks will say, ‘What did you do with yourself when you wasn’t flyin’?’ and I will say, ‘Oh, we found a pretty decent Club. Old Dook Mountjoy-and-Thinggummy belongs. Used to meet him there with the Prime Minister.’”

Bill glared. “Honest; I tell you one thing right now. You can commence to talk straight United States NOW or we go back in separate dirigibles.”

“Aw, I’m just practicin’,” Hank replied.

“Not on me,” said Bill. “Hurry up now, can’t you see Mr. Ridgeway beckonin’ or can’t you see anybody any more but dooks?”

“I can see enough to guess it’s dinner time,” Hank returned cheerfully, and they hurried up to find that that was the very item Mr. Ridgeway wanted to discuss with them.

Mr. Ridgeway seemed to be at home wherever his airship happened to light, and signing the visitors’ book, he took his party into the dining-room, where, in a secluded corner, they disposed of a fine luncheon and watched the people come and go.

Mr. Ridgeway found a friend who was going right down into the country where Mrs. Ridgeway was staying and he offered to take him and Lawrence down with him.

So here they parted, and for a long, long time Lawrence was to see no more of the two clever, honest fellows who had gone through such dangerous deeds with them. Lawrence watched them go off together toward the aviation field where the dirigible was waiting.

“A good pair,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “Honest, faithful, and the best airmen that one could ask. Almost as good as you, Lawrence boy. And now we will wait for our friend to take us to Gray Towers where we will find Mrs. Ridgeway. We will surprise her. She does not expect us so soon.”

The road to Gray Towers took them through the loveliest part of lovely England. To Lawrence, it seemed a wonderful experience to bowl along between trim hedges and high walls, then through wonderful forest preserves and clean toy villages.

Their host, Mr. Alden, lived on the estate next to Gray Towers, and gladly took them to the door of the old castle, although Mr. Ridgeway assured him that they could easily walk the short cut of two miles from the great gates to the door. Lawrence would have been glad of the walk when he got glimpses of the deer between the trees, and when dozens of rabbits flashed across the road before them. Lawrence looked so pleased and happy that Mr. Ridgeway put his arm about his shoulders, and asked, “Now aren’t you glad you came?”

“Are we going to stay here in these woods?” asked Lawrence.

“Right here!” Mr. Ridgeway assured him. “The place belongs to my sister’s husband. She married an Englishman, Lord Gray of Gray Towers and there,” he added, “are the Towers themselves.”

A sort of awkwardness filled Lawrence. “I don’t belong among such people,” he muttered, but Mr. Ridgeway either did not hear or did not wish to reply.

They drew up at the broad steps, where carved lions stood on great square blocks of stone.

The friend, eager to get home, drove on as a lady came out of the door and ran down the steps to meet them.

She wore a kilted walking skirt and sweater, and the sun glinted on her fair hair in which the white showed plainly.

“Hello, Sis!” called Mr. Ridgeway, hurrying to greet her. “How are you all, and where is that wife of mine?”

“It is a wonder you wouldn’t give us more warning of your arrival,” said the lady. “That wife of yours has been in London for several days, and she can’t possibly return before tomorrow morning. Your wire did not come in time. I have telephoned her, however, and she will call you later.”

She turned inquiringly to Lawrence, and Mr. Ridgeway introduced him.

“I am glad you came,” said Lady Gray cordially. “I have two boys about your age. You will be great friends, especially as they are both anxious to fly.”

She studied him thoughtfully.

“Whom does he remind you of, Hamilton?”

“No one that I can think of,” said Mr. Ridgeway.

The lady sighed. “Come in!” she said.

The two boys were nice chaps and asked a million questions which Lawrence was well able to answer. When he told them that he was going back to the United States probably the next day, they refused to consider it at all.

But now that all the danger was over, and the thrills of the journey, Lawrence felt himself once more drowned in loneliness. All the cheery affection and the atmosphere of home oppressed him to the very soul. Even if his own people were poor, no matter how humble they were, Lawrence wanted them with a longing that was almost agony. He had to go back! He had to know!

So he stood firm, although Mr. Ridgeway assured the boys that he was going to have a good talk with Lawrence when they went to bed, and he was willing to bet that he could coax him to stay.

“Go to bed early then!” cried the boys.

It was early when they said good-night, and went up the wide stairs. Mr. Ridgeway was still suffering with his head and needed rest. As they prepared for the night, he said:

“Well, Lawrence, how do you like them all?”

“They are fine!” said Lawrence heartily. “I think Lady Gray is beautiful.”

“Not as beautiful as Mrs. Ridgeway,” replied that lady’s husband. “You don’t get her look in a picture. Her beauty is her changing expression and her color. The painting at home is magnificent, but it does not give you the right idea of her. When she is happy she looks like a girl. I have an awful crush on her, Lawrence.” He laughed, and fumbled in his pocket. “This is the picture I like best,” he said, taking out a pocket case. “It was taken years ago for my birthday, and she has never had another that pleased me so well. It is just like her.” He pulled the reading lamp over and laid the open case down on the table under the strong light.

Lawrence looked.

For a moment he saw the picture clearly, and then as he stared, it swam off in a sort of mist. He kept his eyes on it and it came back, and gazed gently, radiantly up at him. But he could not speak. He felt his knees giving, his heart hammering. It couldn’t be true! Something was wrong! With fingers that fumbled and shook, he felt for his own case, found it, dropped it, recovered it, and at last managed to open it and place it beside the other.

Then he groaned.

“Eh?” said Mr. Ridgeway, coming back from the dresser. “Lovely, isn’t it?” He looked past Lawrence’s bowed head at the two pictures, and with a great cry, seized them.

“Lawrence...boy...merciful heavens...where did you get this...explain!” came bursting from his lips.

Lawrence gently took his picture, felt under the photograph, and offered the two pieces of paper—the scrap written over with his name and the torn bit of newspaper.

“I was stolen,” he said, his lips almost too dry and trembling for speech. “My brother was drowned. I did not know until just before we set out. I have always had these. A woman said to keep them. She said they would lead me to my people.”

So far Mr. Ridgeway had listened. Then with a great and terrible cry, the cry of a strong man who has been too brave to voice his agony and has borne it for years, he took Lawrence to his heart.

The tears of men and the embraces of men should be sacred, and it was with a feeling that his soul had been washed clean of everything but thankfulness and love that Lawrence found himself sitting beside his father later when they were composed enough to talk. Mr. Ridgeway’s arm about his son’s shoulder still trembled, and their hands were still clasped as though they were afraid of losing each other. Again and again they told each other of the past, again and again Mr. Ridgeway wondered if his wife would ever be able to stand the shock of joy.

It was late when they heard the light footfall of Lady Gray as she passed down the corridor to her room.

“Let us tell her,” said Mr. Ridgeway. “She will know what to do.”

He went to the door, and asked her to call her husband and come in.

Their joy was as great as it could be when they really accepted the wonderful fact. It seemed as though no one could go to sleep. Finally toward morning they settled down, but Mr. Ridgeway could not close his eyes, and Lawrence, although he obediently shut his, lay awake listening to his father’s uneasy breathing as he stared through the dawn at the beloved son that had been given back to him.

Lady Gray had warned them all not to tell the boys, as they might let the news slip before her sister was prepared for it. So breakfast was made possible by their appeals to Lawrence to stay on and help them build a plane.

As the time for Mrs. Ridgeway’s return approached, Lawrence grew almost unbearably nervous. What if she should not like him? He brushed and rebrushed his hair. He had asked Mr. Ridgeway to tell her all before they met. Lawrence wanted his first sight of that pictured face to be the face of his mother, not a stranger who would give him a friendly hand to shake.

So he ran, actually ran for refuge to his room when he heard the motor come up the winding drive. Gay voices and greetings floated up to his open window, but he could not look out.

Downstairs his father would now be taking his wife into the dim library. He would draw her over to the divan and seat her in the circle of his arm. Just as they had planned, he would tell her carefully and tenderly that her son, her own son was found at last, that not both little fellows had been doomed to the flood.

“But what if she doesn’t like me? What if she doesn’t want me?” Lawrence asked himself over and over.

Time dragged on; it seemed the day had gone past, yet his watch had counted off but half an hour. He could not stand it! He took out the case and, laying the picture on the table, gazed down into its tender eyes. Then, unable to bear it, he sank to his knees and put his face against the picture.

“Mother, what if you do not love me?” he asked, his heart starving.

As if in answer, the door opened. Springing to his feet, Lawrence wheeled.

She stood in the doorway, the picture itself, his Pretty; his mother!

Their eyes met and held. She did not speak. She gave a little crooning cry. Her arms were wide and waiting.

And Lawrence went home.