As Reggie opened the gate of St. Olave's and glanced up at the familiar ivy-encircled windows, he felt as if a dream that he had often seen before, had come again to him, and that he should only wake to find himself back in the dull little sitting-room in Scotland, trying to find an uneasy rest on the horsehair sofa.

Mrs. Brougham was sitting in the bow-window; she always sat there nowadays, and there was reality enough in her pale, weary face. Almost the first smile that had lightened it since Maud had disappeared, came to it when she saw Reggie.

"Oh, Reggie!" she exclaimed.

Reggie came to the open window and leaned on the sill.

"Well, mother," he said, lifting up his face to kiss her. He had always called her mother and kissed her, since the days when he had worn knickers and been Gertrude's chum. "Well, mother, aren't you surprised to see me?"

"Very," she said, "is it your holidays?"

Reggie nodded. "I only heard yesterday about Maud," he said gently. "There's nothing fresh—no news, I suppose?"

"Nothing," said Mrs. Brougham, hopelessly.

She felt somehow comforted by Reggie's coming. He was so like one of themselves, so old a friend that there was nothing to explain, no need for excusing words, no fear that his sympathy would make the sorrow wake again.

Reggie felt it too. He stood there quite silent for a minute, still holding her hand; then he said,

"If you knew where Gertrude would be this afternoon, I could go and meet her. She'll be so surprised to see me."

"Yes," answered Mrs. Brougham mechanically. She knew far, far more of those stories about Gertrude, than Gertrude ever guessed. Even in those early summer days of the picnics and tennis parties that had filled all Gertrude's mind, Conway and Willie had confided to their mother that they wished Gertrude would not be quite so pleasant. She sighed a little as she looked into Reggie's bright, open face. Girls did not always know true gold when they saw it. Then she remembered that Reggie had asked her a question.

"Oh, yes," she said hastily, "I was forgetting. Come in, Reggie; she is at home this afternoon. Denys had to go to Mixham, and I persuaded her to take Pattie with her—I am so nervous now," she added pathetically, "and Gertrude has been busy in the kitchen all the afternoon, but she's done now, and I believe she went to the drawing-room to study."

"I'll go round the garden way and disturb her," said Reggie, with a laugh.

He thought as he went round the garden that "Gertrude busy in the kitchen all the afternoon," had an odd sound.

Gertrude had not begun to study. She sat in a deep armchair, her books unopened on her lap, looking out upon the sunny garden, and brooding drearily over the past, wondering sadly whether, if Maud were never, never found, she could ever feel happy again! And if happiness did come to her, and Maud had not come back, how terrible that would be, for it would mean that she had forgotten Maud, forgotten her wrong-doing; that she had become again the self-loving, self-centred being that had lost Maud!

As Reggie's figure crossed the grass she sprang up, and her books fell with a clatter to the ground.

"Oh, Reggie!" she said, just as her mother had done.

"Yes," said Reggie, "I've come! I only heard yesterday."

A flood of colour swept over Gertrude's face, but the room was shaded, and she hoped Reggie would not see. What must he think of the story he had only heard yesterday! She had wished that he might know about it. Now she felt as if he were the only one in the world, from whom she would gladly have hidden it.

"Sit down," she said; "all the others are out, except mother."

"I've seen her," he said quietly.

There was a pause. There seemed nothing to say, absolutely nothing! Nothing that could be said, at least.

At last Reggie broke the silence.

"What have you done to trace her?" he asked. Perhaps it was the easiest question he could have asked. Gertrude could answer that, and she told him all that had been done. "I wish there was something I could do," he said, when she paused.

"Is it your holidays?" she asked indifferently. "I'm afraid there's nothing much going on in Old Keston just now. You'll find it very dull."

"That won't matter to me. I have to go back on Monday."

"Oh! Have you had a nice time the first part? I thought you were going to have a fortnight in September."

As Gertrude could think of nothing to say, Reggie's holiday seemed a very safe subject.

He laughed a little.

"This is the first part; I came up by last night's mail, I haven't even been home yet. I came off directly I heard about Maud and all your trouble. I was so awfully sorry, and letters are not the least bit of use for saying what you feel."

"It's very good of you," said Gertrude gratefully. "Shall you come home again in September?"

"Oh! there won't be any September," said Reggie cheerfully.

There was another pause and then Gertrude said in a very low voice,

"Reggie, have you heard all the stories that they tell?"

"I expect so," answered Reggie soberly; "but, Gertrude, I would have given up all my holiday, except one hour, if I could just say one word to comfort you."

She looked up at him suddenly, startled.

"Reggie," she said, "do you mean that you gave up all your holiday just to get four days to come up and comfort me? Me! after all you have heard!"

"I don't even think about those stories," said Reggie, half scornfully, half indignantly.

"Don't you?" said Gertrude wistfully. "Oh, Reggie, it is a comfort just to see you sitting there; it is indeed! Except at home here—and they've been so good to me—you are the first that has said one kind word to me about it all. I knew you would when you heard. Only I don't feel as if I ought to be looking for comfort or happiness for myself till she is found; you'll understand that, won't you?"

"Yes, I understand. But that's your side of it, Gertrude. There's another side, and that's my side. I want you to listen to what I've come all the way from Scotland to say. I've said it to myself for years. Last night, when the train was rushing down through England, I was saying it to myself over and over again. Now I'm going to say it to you.

"Gertrude, I love you, I shall always love you, I want you to belong to me for always. I only think of the happiness of my life as bound up in you. I think of your love as the best and happiest thing God can give me.

"That's my side of this matter, and I want you to think of it often, and then, when little Maud is found, and we can talk about our own happiness, then you must tell me what you think about your side of it."

"Gertrude! Gertrude!"

The voice rang through the house as no voice had rung through it since Maud went away, and there was that in the sound of it, which made Gertrude and Reggie spring to their feet and rush to the door.

In the hall was a confused group, and in the centre of the group was a little figure in a short black kilted frock with a sailor jacket, and a big white hat with a black ribbon that half hid the fluffy brown hair, that was turning golden at the roots.

For a moment Gertrude stood staring, as Denys had done, then the familiar blue eyes met hers, and the silvery little voice said gleefully,

"Hullo, Gertrude! I've come back."

"Maud! Maud! Oh, my darling, my darling!"

Reggie returned to the North on Monday, and when he went, a beautiful little half hoop of diamonds sparkled upon Gertrude's left hand. It was Reggie's greatest treasure, for it had been his mother's engagement ring; but the wearing of that ring was the only enlightenment which Old Keston received about Gertrude's and Reggie's affairs.

As Mrs. Brougham observed, people could see what they liked, but they did not deserve to hear anything.

"And so," said Mrs. Gray, as Reggie finished telling his tale in her drawing-room, "and so nobody knows who took the child or how she came to be found again."

"Nobody," repeated Reggie with emphasis. But he was mistaken. There was one man who knew. A man who had gone forth at last "in the strength of the Lord God," and who had conquered. A man, who was holding out loving, strengthening hands to his wife, and to many another tempted one; but he never told anybody what he knew, not even Tom, for Jane was Tom's sister!