Of course the facts are old now, and I need not detail them here. All the world knows that Colonel Laycock's soldiers came up in time to get hold of, not only Liddicoat and his accomplice, who proved to be dangerous German spies, but several others who had been in the enemy's service for the purpose of conveying petrol to the submarines. The little bay in which I had lived was of great importance to them, and the cave I had discovered was their principal storehouse for petrol. Indeed, since their plot was exposed and our Government officials got hold of the facts, submarines have done their work under increasing difficulty.

Of Father Abraham I heard but little. This, however, is the news which came to me: Years before, he had been sent from Germany to act as one of their agents, but later on, when he discovered what would be expected of him, he left the neighborhood; but before doing so he did his best to create the idea that he had been murdered, and that his body had been disposed of. It seems that he stood in deadly fear of the Germans, and believed that he was constantly watched. He was afraid to confess that he had been acting as a German agent, and that was why he didn't tell the English authorities what he knew. Why he was so anxious to save me from danger I cannot fully comprehend; all I know about him I have set down in this narrative, and those who read this must draw their own conclusions. Certain it is that he was never seen in the neighborhood of St. Issey again.

My own recovery was longer than I had hoped for. I grew gradually stronger, but the operation which I had undergone was more serious than I had imagined, and it was several weeks after I awoke to consciousness before I was allowed to leave my room.

Dr. Rhomboid, who came twice from London to see me, was very insistent on my taking no risks, and also kept the many visitors who desired to see me from entering the room.

Thus for some time after the incidents I have recorded, with the exception of the doctor, who, by the way, was not Dr. Wise, the only persons I saw were the nurse, Simpson, and Isabella. As may be imagined, however, I was well looked after, and was not at all sorry at being deprived of the companionship of my neighbors. Perhaps, however, I have said too much. I did want to see Squire Treherne, and I should have been glad of a visit from the Vicar; and bearing in mind what Squire Treherne had said, I wanted to have a chat with Josiah Lethbridge.

At the end of three weeks I was pronounced sufficiently strong to receive visitors, and the first who came was Josiah Lethbridge. I had expected to see a change in him, but not so great as had actually taken place. He knew nothing of what had passed between Isabella and myself, because we had arranged to keep everything a secret; but he could not have treated me more kindly had I been his own child. When I uttered my apologies for the trouble which I had given the family, his lips quivered and he seemed on the point of breaking down.

"Please don't mention that," he said. "If you only knew the joy it gives me to know that you are in the house, and that I am in the slightest degree able to be of service to you, you would not talk in that way. But I must not try to explain now; the doctor has only given me three minutes to be with you, so I will only say that I am glad you are here, and that I am eagerly looking forward to the time when we shall see more of each other and know each other better. I have a great deal to tell you, my lad. God only knows how much."

Of the visits of Squire Treherne and Mr. Trelaske I will not speak, save to say that I well-nigh broke down at the old Squire's behavior.

"God bless my soul!" ejaculated the old man; "we will give you a time when you get well! No, no, not a word from you; you must not talk; but we will give you a time! We will have the whole countryside en fÊte! It is not only the German plot you have exposed, it is other things, my boy! God bless you!"

It was not until the beginning of August that I was allowed to leave my bedroom and find my way down-stairs. The nurse and Isabella walked each side of me, supporting me at each step I took, and when I reached the living-room I found Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge awaiting me. I had barely spoken to Mrs. Lethbridge when I heard a child's cry in the room, and, looking, I saw Mary, Hugh's wife, holding a baby in her arms.

"Yes," said Josiah Lethbridge with a laugh, "this is a secret that we have kept in store for you. This is Hugh's child!"

"Then—then...." I stammered.

"As soon as my son's wife was well enough I insisted upon her being brought to her true home. Mary, my love, bring your baby here where Mr. Erskine can see him. Isn't he a beautiful boy? He was christened a month ago."

"And what is he called?" I asked.

"There was only one name to give him," replied Josiah Lethbridge proudly—"Hugh."

As I looked into Mary's eyes a sob rose in my throat. I saw the joy of motherhood there, I saw infinite tenderness, and more than tenderness. It was a joy chastened by sorrow, by loss unspeakable, by hope eternal.

"I am so glad, Mary," I said, "so glad. It is as it ought to be, isn't it?"

"Isn't he just like his father?" said the young mother proudly. "See his eyes, his chin—why, he's Hugh all over again!" Then her lips became tremulous, and tears welled up into her eyes.

"He is a beautiful boy," I said, "and—and...."

"He's made the house a new place," cried Josiah Lethbridge. "I have made Mary sleep in the next room to mine so that I can hear him when he cries in the night. It does me good to hear a baby cry. Oh, my boy, my boy!" and his voice trembled as he spoke.

I knew what he was thinking about—knew that he remembered, with a great sadness in his heart, that he had driven his only son from home; knew that he suffered unspeakable sorrow; and I could see that he was a different man.

"Isn't God good to us?" he said huskily; "and—and—Mary's forgiven me too, haven't you, my love?"

He put his arm around the young widow's waist as he spoke and kissed her.

"It's the baby who has done everything," said Mrs. Lethbridge. "The news that he was born came in the middle of the night, and when Josiah heard that both mother and child were well, he could not stay in bed; he got up and tramped around the room like a man beside himself. 'She must come home,' he said, 'home, and bring her baby with her.' Oh, it's wonderful, wonderful!"

"And you, Mary," said I, "are you well again?"

The simple-hearted girl turned to me with a wan smile.

"When the news came to me first about Hugh," she said, "I thought I should have died; I wanted to die; life seemed hateful to me; then—then—when my boy was born, oh, he made all the difference! I know Hugh is not dead, he lives in heaven, and he is watching over us. You believe that too, don't you, Mr. Erskine?"

"I don't believe in death," I replied; "there is no death, only seeming death."

"Do you remember what I said to you, Erskine, when I saw you months ago in your little hut?" said Josiah Lethbridge. "I said that God Almighty must be laughing at us. Now I know I was wrong."

"Yes?" I said questioningly.

"God Almighty never laughs at us," said Josiah Lethbridge. "He is revealed to us by His Son, and Jesus wept at the graveside of Lazarus. He weeps at all the sorrow and pain of the world. Jesus wept even although He knew He would raise Lazarus from the dead, and God weeps at our follies and our madness even although He, in His Eternal Love, is working out for us all a greater salvation. Oh, we are fools, my lad! We measure His purposes by our little foot-rule; we explain His Will according to the standard of our puny minds; we measure events by days and years; but God lives, and works His own Sovereign Will. It has all come to me lately. I have gone through deep waters, my lad; the waves and the billows have well-nigh overwhelmed me; but that little baby has made all the difference; my boy lives again in him."

I was silent, I remember; there seemed nothing to say. What were words at such a time as that? Deep had called unto deep, and the Voice of God had been heard in the mysterious happenings of life.

I found my way to a chair close by a window, through which I looked out on the lawn, and at the flowers which surrounded it. It was about three o'clock in the afternoon, and the sun had begun to sink, although the day was yet glorious. Beyond the trees of the park I could see the wild moorland, and between two rugged tors I caught the shimmer of the sea.

The nurse had left the room by this time, and none but the members of the family except myself remained. I could not help realizing the change that had taken place. When I had first entered the house the atmosphere was cold, hard, unpleasant. Josiah Lethbridge was in the height of his prosperity, and he had his wife and children around him; his life did not seem to be touched with care or sorrow; no clouds seemed to hang in his sky. Now the death-reaper had come and had taken his only son; yet it was a far happier home than then. Josiah Lethbridge had been embittered towards his son, because the latter loved a simple-minded farmer's daughter; he had even driven his son from home, because the lad would be true to his heart and marry the girl he loved. Now he had taken this girl to his arms; he had brought her and her baby to his home. There was sorrow in the house, but it was a chastened sorrow, a sorrow illumined by faith and love.

"Oh, if my boy had only lived!" said Josiah Lethbridge; "if he had only been spared to see this day, I think my cup of happiness would be full; but God Almighty never makes a mistake."

"No," I said, "He never makes a mistake."

"Do you say that, Erskine?"

"Yes, I say it," I replied, thinking of my own experiences and remembering the life that had come to me. "Yes, I say it."

"It is a ghastly thing, is this war," he went on. "I become bewildered, maddened, when I think about it. I can't explain it, I can't even see a far-off glimpse of explanation, when I think of this life only. When I think of the suffering, of the waste of life, the sorrow, the unutterable sorrow of tens of thousands of homes;—it's all so foolish, so—so—mad. But that is not God's doing, my boy; besides, even in it all, through it all, He's working His Will. Life is being purified; men are learning their lessons. I know it, Great God, I know it! The nations of Europe were in danger of forgetting God, and now are realizing their foolishness. But oh, if my Hugh had lived! If I could see him coming across the lawn as I used to see him, if I could hear him laugh in his old boyish way! But he is dead."

"No, Mr. Lethbridge," I said, "he is not dead; there is no death, of that I am certain; there is no death. God lives, and because He lives His children live always. I agree with you about the ghastliness, the sinfulness, the madness of war; but this war has told me that the eternal life in man laughs at death. What we call death is not an end of life, it is only a beginning. This life is only a fragment of life; that at all events I have learnt."

I looked around the room and found that we were alone. Mary had taken away her baby, while Mrs. Lethbridge and Isabella had, for some reason, left the room.

"You speak like one who knows," said Josiah Lethbridge; "you talk like a man who has seen things."

"Yes," I said, "I have seen things."

"And you have rendered great service to your country too. Have you read what the papers have said about you?"

"No," I replied, "I don't know that I have troubled about them. After all, those were only incidents; there are more important things than those."

He looked at me curiously.

"I know what you have experienced and suffered," I said, "and I know what your suffering has done for you; but you know little of my story; I want to tell you more about it."

"Yes, yes, tell me!" he said eagerly.

And I told him—told him of the doctor's verdict; told him of my longing for life; told him much that I have set down in these pages.

"I can't explain it," I said, when I came to describe the experiences through which I had passed after the great darkness fell upon me, "but I KNOW, I SAW."

"You felt that, saw that?"

"God and immortality are not matters of faith to me now, Mr. Lethbridge; they are matters of consciousness; that is why I am so certain about Hugh. He is not dead. A lad who could do what he did had Eternal Life in him. God is here all the while; it is only our blindness that keeps us from seeing Him. Hugh is still your son. There are only two eternal things, Mr. Lethbridge."

"Two eternal things," he repeated, "only two?"

"Life, love. That leads me to what I want to say to you now."

He looked at me with keen interest.

"I love Isabella," I said simply. "Haven't you guessed it?"

"What! Do you mean——?"

"I do," I said. "Will you give her to me?"

"I—I have seen a change in her lately, and—and——But, my dear boy——"

"I am afraid I am what you will call a poor match," I went on. "The doctor says it will be months before I shall be fully strong again, although he promises me that I shall be able to resume my old profession in a couple of months from now. Perhaps my clients will have forgotten me; still, I think I can get some new ones; my reputation seems to be better than I thought it was. Besides, if I become fully strong again, I shall feel it my duty to offer my services to the country; so I shall be a poor match, I am afraid, but I love her."

"And she?" he asked.

"She knows all I have told you," I replied.

"And—and—that has made all the change in her then. Why—why——"

"Will you give her to me, Mr. Lethbridge?" I repeated. "Will you let me take Hugh's place as far as I can? I will give my life to make her happy."

His astonishment seemed too great for words; several times he attempted to speak, but broke down each time.

"But, Erskine, my lad," he said at length, "Erskine——"

"You will, won't you, dad? If you don't, I shall run away with Frank!"

I had no knowledge that Isabella had been there, but, turning, I saw her standing behind me with love-lit eyes.

"Oh, dad, you won't refuse, will you?"

"Refuse?" he cried. "God bless my soul!—but—but—it's the very thing I would have chosen!" and then this stern, strong man sobbed like a child.

"We are having tea on the lawn," said Mrs. Lethbridge, entering the room at that moment. "Why, what's the meaning of this?"

When she knew what had taken place, she threw her arms around my neck, and kissed me.

"I have seen it for months," she declared presently. "Oh, yes, you needn't laugh at me; I saw—trust a mother's eyes."

That was the happiest evening I had ever known. I will not try to describe it, words seem so poor, so utterly insufficient. We were like those who had come safe into harbor after a voyage across a gray, trackless, stormy sea. We shuddered at the thought of the voyage; but we were glad we had undergone the suffering.

"I never knew dad so happy in my life," said Isabella to me as she bade me good-night. "Do you know, that in spite of everything I was afraid that he might—he might refuse? Oh, my love, my love, if Hugh had only lived to see us all!"

"He does see us," I ventured.

"Yes, but if he could be here amongst us, if he could see how father treats Mary, how he loves the baby, how happy mother is, and how—I—I——Oh, how I hate bidding you good-night, but we shall meet again in the morning."

"Yes, we shall meet in the morning," I said, with a glad heart.

I thought my story had come to an end here, that I had no more to relate, but an event has just happened which I must set down, or this narrative will be incomplete.

I had returned to London and taken up my life where I had dropped it. I was still comparatively weak, but strong enough to do the work which fell to me.

As the weeks passed by, clients came to me as of old, and I found myself having to refuse briefs. I was glad of this, because I wanted to show Josiah Lethbridge, when I went to Cornwall for Christmas, that I was not helpless, and that I was able to provide a home for his child. I found, too, although the doctors refused me when I offered myself for the Army, that my strength was daily increasing. Indeed, so far had I recovered myself that near the end of the term I was able to carry through a difficult case, and in spite of being opposed by a barrister of national reputation, I was able to win it.

I had hoped to go to Cornwall at the beginning of the Christmas vacation, but I found that my success had led to so much work that it was not until Christmas Eve that I was able to get away.

"Simpson," I said on the Thursday night, "I want you to get my bag in readiness in time for me to catch the Riviera express to-morrow morning. You know what things I shall want, Simpson; I shall be away about a fortnight, I hope."

"Yes, sir."

But Simpson didn't leave me as usual.

"What is the matter, Simpson? Is there anything you wish to say?"

"Well, sir, as you are going to Cornwall, I thought—that is—you see, there might not be room at Mr. Lethbridge's house for me; but the little hut on the cliff is still empty, and I could sleep there."

"You want to go, do you, Simpson?"

"Well, sir——"

"All right," I laughed, "you be ready to come with me." Whereupon he hurried away with a glad look in his eyes.

Isabella met me at the station on Christmas Eve. It was about five o'clock when the train drew up, and when I stepped on the platform she sobbed like one overcome.

"What is the matter?" I asked.

"I—I was afraid you would not come—afraid lest something should happen."

"Why, what should happen?"

"I don't know, only—even now it seems too good to be true. But there, you have come. Let me look at you again and make sure."

"Have you any visitors?" I asked presently.

"No; dad would not have any, but he's inviting Mr. Treleaven and his wife over to dinner to-morrow. You see, he's so anxious to make Mary happy. Do you know, Frank," and she laughed joyfully, "he seems to think of himself as your guardian. He has asked me twenty times to-day what time you are coming, and whether I have had any telegrams from you, and hosts of other things. I have been waiting at the station for an hour. He ordered Jenkins to bring around the car an hour too soon. He has read all about that trial a dozen times, and he is—he is proud of you, Frank!"

Oh, it was good to be in Cornwall again, good to breathe the pure air, and to smell the salt of the sea. As the motor dashed through St. Issey I thought of the time I had first seen it, and remembered the weight that had rested upon my heart.

"I have spent all the morning helping to decorate the Chapel," said Isabella, looking towards that structure as we passed it. "We are going to have a special service there to-morrow. Oh, it is good to have you, Frank."

A few minutes later we drew up to the entrance of Trecarrel, where both Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge stood waiting to greet me, while behind them was Mary, holding her baby in her arms.

"Is he not a beauty, Frank?" she said, holding him up to me. "He is beginning to know such a lot of things too. He knows grandad, granny, and Isabella; you should see him laugh when they come into the room!"

"Now, Frank, warm yourself before you go up to dress," cried Josiah Lethbridge. "Mother, is the fire in Frank's room all right? He will be cold and tired, you know."

"Nonsense, Josiah; the fire has been burning there for hours."

"Well, I ordered it to be laid this morning," said the old man, "and when I went into the room at twelve o'clock the servants had not done it. Ah, but you are welcome, my boy; we will have a grand Christmas," and then he sighed.

I knew what he was thinking about, but I was so happy that I had almost forgotten Hugh when I entered the drawing-room and found Isabella awaiting me.

"I have got this new frock especially for you, Your Lordship. How do you like it?" she said, and my heart leapt as I saw the light in her eyes.

"If you had a decent figure it would look very well," I said, with a laugh; "but you know, even dressmakers can't ..."

After this I had to show contrition for my rudeness.

"You should have seen the hampers that dad has sent to the trenches," she said presently. "All the men in Hugh's company have been remembered. Oh, Frank, there is such a difference in dad; he is not the same man he used to be. He is great friends now with the Vicar, and with Squire Treherne, and all of them."

Precisely at seven o'clock we found our way into the dining-room. The apartment was resplendent with Christmas decorations; everywhere the feeling of Christmas abounded. There were only five of us to sit down to dinner—Mr. and Mrs. Lethbridge, Mary, Isabella, and myself—but six chairs were placed. The empty chair was at the end of the table opposite Mr. Lethbridge, and everything had been arranged as though the chair was expected to be occupied. All of us noted it, although no one spoke aloud concerning it.

"Dad ordered it," said Isabella to me; "he would have it so."

We took our places at the dinner-table, and then Josiah Lethbridge said:

"We will sing the old Grace, children."

But we never finished the last line; we heard a quick step in the hall outside, a bustling noise, then the dining-room door opened, and Hugh Lethbridge, pale and wan, but still tall and erect, clad in an officer's uniform, came into the room!

For a moment he seemed to be dazzled by the light, and walked with uncertain footsteps, while we stood silent with amazement. Then he caught the look on his wife's face.

"It's Hugh!" she gasped.

Hugh rushed towards her, and a second later they were locked in each other's arms.

"My wife! My Mary!" he cried.

I will not try to describe what followed, nor attempt to tell how the mother fell upon her boy's neck with fond words of endearment; how Josiah Lethbridge put his hand upon his boy's head, felt his shoulders and his arms, and patted him with infinite tenderness as though he wanted to assure himself that it was really he and not his spirit; how Isabella kissed him again and again, with all sorts of endearing terms; and how Hugh and I shook hands at least twenty times.

"And it is not vacant after all," said Josiah Lethbridge, as he saw his son sitting in the chair which had been placed opposite him. "Oh, thank God! Thank God!"

Of course Hugh had a long story to tell. It seems that in the excitement of battle, after the German officer had shot him, he was left for dead, and then, before the stretcher-bearers came to him, he had crawled away, and it was believed that he had been buried with the others who were killed that night.

Hugh's description was extremely hazy, because he himself scarcely knew what happened to him. When he awoke to consciousness he found himself in a French peasant's hut within the German lines, and here he was kept and nursed by the owners. It seemed a miracle that he should have escaped, but these peasants, seeing that he was English and hating the Germans, kept their secret well. Month after month he lay ill, and even when at length he was well enough to get up, his memory had gone, and he could tell nothing about himself nor what he wanted to do. By and by, however, when his faculties were restored to him, he realized the difficulties of his situation, and for a long time he schemed and planned how to get through the German lines and find his way back to his friends.

I will not trouble the reader with a recital of all he went through; suffice it to say that he at length succeeded, and was received by his old comrades as a man risen from the dead. As may be imagined, no sooner did he get among the English than all his difficulties vanished. A new uniform and money were given to him, with a lengthy leave of absence. He was careful, too, to impress upon his superior officers that he didn't want any news concerning his safety to arrive in England before he himself got there. He wanted to give his people a surprise, he said. This being easily arranged, Hugh returned to England, and arrived in Cornwall on Christmas Eve. He decided first of all to go straight to John Treleaven's farm, where he hoped to find his wife, but learning that she had gone to Trecarrel, he with a great wonder in his heart had hurried to his old home.

The lights of Trecarrel never went out that night. It was Josiah Lethbridge's will that they should not. Besides, we all had so much to say. Hugh would have the baby brought into the room, and Josiah Lethbridge insisted that Mary's father and mother should be fetched immediately. And then Hugh had to tell his story at least six times over, and we all wondered and exclaimed at each recital.

The wonder of that night will never leave me. I had thought that I could never be so happy again as on the evening when Josiah Lethbridge told me he would give Isabella to me for my wife. But that Christmas Eve when Hugh came and the Christmas morning which followed were more wonderful still. Never shall I forget how the soldier lad held his baby in his arms, and looked at it with infinite tenderness and wonder; while his wife, who had believed him dead, clung to him, uttering fond, endearing terms all the while. Never shall I forget how Mrs. Lethbridge went from one to another, with tears of joy streaming down her face, or how Josiah Lethbridge, the old hard look gone from his eyes, told his children again and again how he loved them.

I will leave my narrative here. My tale is told, even while it is not finished. While I write, guns are booming, and the war between the nations goes on; but I do not fear.

This great world carnage is horrible beyond words, its madness is inexpressible, but beyond all is God. He has many ways of teaching His lessons, and He is now speaking to us out of the whirlwind and out of the fire.

Printed in the United States of America

[Transcriber's Notes: Some odd spellings have been retained as typeset, i.e., "unforgetable".]