I am so pleased that it has come about, my dearest Madge,” said Mrs Harland. “I always hoped that Julian would take a fancy—I mean that you—that you would come to think tenderly of Julian. It was the one hope of my life. What should I have done if he had come to me with a story of having fallen in love with one of those horrid modern young women—the sort who are for ever having their names in the papers about something or other—charities and things? Charity has become the most effective means of self-advertisement in these days.”

“If he had come to you saying that he loved such a girl, you—you would have loved her too, you dear old thing!” cried Madge, kissing her on both cheeks.

“Madge, I’m ashamed of you,” said Mrs Harland with dignity—the dignity of the lady with a grievance.

“It is of yourself you would feel ashamed if your son came to you with a tale of loving a girl—any girl—and you failed to see her exactly with his eyes,” laughed Madge. “But I know you are glad that your duty in this respect is so easy: you have always loved me, haven’t you? How could you help it? When I think of how naughty I used to be; of the panes in the greenhouse I used to break, playing cricket with Julian—panes that involved no penalties; when I think of your early peas that I used to steal and eat raw out of the pods; when I think of all the mischief I used to put poor Julian up to, usually giving him a good lead over; and when I reflect that not once did I ever receive more than a verbal reproof from you, then I know that you could not help loving me,—it was not my fault that you did not think of me as the greatest nuisance in the county.”

Mrs Harland laughed, though she had entered upon this interview with the girl who was to be her daughter-in-law very seriously, and in by no means a laughing spirit.

“I loved you always, because you were always a girl to be loved, and my prayer day and night, dear, was that Julian would come to think so in good time,” said she. “I was, I admit, slightly alarmed to find how very friendly you and he always were: every one knows that nothing is so fatal to falling in love as great friendliness.”

“Of course,” said Madge. “How funny it was that I should never think about the matter at all! And yet I feel that I must always have loved him, just as I do now. How could any one help it, my dearest mother?”

The fond mother of Julian Harland made no attempt to answer so difficult a question. Some mothers may be able to formulate on economic grounds how it is that young men do not find it impossible to resist the charms of their numerous daughters; but the mother of an only son declines to entertain the notion that he may fail to attract any girl who has had the good fortune to appear attractive in his eyes. That was why Mrs Harland fully acquiesced in Madge’s view of the irresistible qualities of Julian.

“He is a good boy, he has never been otherwise than a good boy,” she said. “Still—well, I know that his future is safe in your keeping, my Madge.”

She had heard of extremely good boys making extremely undesirable matches with young women in tobacconists’ shops. It would seem as if every university town must be overflowing with tobacconists’ shops, and as if every tobacconist’s shop must be overcrowded with attractive young ladies; one reads so much (in books written by ladies) of the undergraduate victims to tobacconists’ girls. She felt glad that her son Julian had not come to her from Oxford with a story of having made up his mind that he could only be entirely happy if married to one of these. She felt that he had been a really good son in choosing Madge Winston, the most beautiful girl in the county, rather than a snub-nosed, golden-haired girl from behind a tobacconist’s counter. Yes, he deserved great credit for his discrimination.

“And I am doubly glad that you have become engaged just now,” she continued. “You will keep him at home, Madge.”

“He has never shown any tendency to roam again,” said Madge, with an inquiring look into Mrs Harland’s eyes. “He has often said that having had his tiger-shooting in Kashmir, he is perfectly satisfied.”

“It was not that sort of shooting that was in my mind,” said Mrs Harland. “But his father was a soldier—my father was a soldier. Look round the hall, Madge—nothing but uniforms in every picture. That is why——”

“You are afraid that if this war breaks out in earnest——”

“That’s it—that’s it. He belongs to a race of soldiers. There has not been a war since Blenheim between England and any other Power in which a Harland and a Severn have not fought.”

“That is a splendid thing to be able to say; and yet Julian was content with his Militia. Isn’t that strange?”

“It was for my sake, dearest Madge. I saw in his face before he was sixteen the old racial longing to be a soldier, and I made an appeal to him. He put his career away from him for my sake, Madge. He promised to stay at home with me in my loneliness.”

“You were able to make such an appeal to him?” There was a suggestion of surprise in the girl’s voice, and it carried with it a curious suggestion of coldness as well.

“Was it selfish of me—was it, Madge? Oh! I dare say it was. Yes, it must have been selfish; but think of my position, dear. He is all I have in the world now. What would life be worth to me if he were away, or if he were in danger? And then, think of his responsibilities. The property is not a large one, and it requires careful treatment. You don’t think that I was unreasonable, Madge?”

“Oh no, no,” said the girl. “You were right, quite right; only——”

“Only—only what, dear?” said Mrs Harland. “What is on my mind exactly at this moment,” said Madge, “is, that I—I would not have been strong enough to say that to him.”

“To say what to him, Madge?”

“What you said—to ask him to stay at home when he had his heart set on being a soldier, as his father and as his grandfathers were. Even now—but what’s the use of discussing a situation that cannot arise? Even if the war breaks out, he is only a Militia captain, so that he cannot be called on for duty in a campaign.”

“Of course, the war will be over in a month or two, and there is no chance of the Militia being called out; but it is just for the next month or so that I have my fears—my fears, I should say. I have none now that I know that you have promised to make him happy—to make me happy. I had my fears that at the first sound of the trumpet in his ears all the instincts of his house... Look at those uniforms in every picture round the hall.... Ah, I was afraid that he might ask me to release him from his promise.”

“And you knew that you would have released him without a word of demur,” said Madge. “You know that you would do so, for you belong to a fighting house, too. Bless me, I’m the only representative of civilianism among you all. Oh, it is high time that the fighting Severns and the fighting Harlands got a pacific element introduced among them.”

“That is what I feel,” said Mrs Harland. “Madge, you will not allow him ever to yield to that tradition of his house. I feel that so long as he is by your side he is safe. One campaign at least will take place without a descendant of the Harlands having anything to do with it.”

Before Madge had time to make a reply the gravel of the drive was sent flying against the lowest panes of the room by the feet of a horse reined in suddenly.

“Julian has returned with some important news,” said Madge, glancing outside.

In another instant a man’s step sounded in the porch, and Julian Harland entered the old oak hall with a newspaper in the same hand that held his hunting crop.

“It has come at last!” he cried. “War! war! war!”

“England has declared war against the Transvaal!” said Madge.

“On the contrary, it is Mr Kruger, the Boer farmer, who has declared war against Great Britain!” said he.

“Poor Mr Kruger!” said Madge.

“I am sorry—very sorry! War is terrible! I know what war means,” said Mrs Harland.

“Sorry!—sorry!” cried her son. “Why, what is there to be grieved, about? You’re not a friend of Mr Kruger’s, mother?”

“I know what war means,” said she.

“And I don’t,” said he.

There was something in his voice that suggested a sigh, and it seemed that he was aware of this himself, for he threw his riding crop into a corner, and cried out quite cheerily—“I’m happy to feel all the springs of domesticity welling up within my bosom since you made me the happiest chap in the county, my Madge. I have no greater ambition than to sit in a chair at one side of the fire with you to look at, my Madge. How rosy you are, my dear. What is keeping the lunch, mother? We must drink together ‘Confusion to Kruger!’ His ultimatum—fancy a half-caste Dutch peasant having the impudence to write an ultimatum to Great Britain!—it expires to-day. We’ll not leave the hall till we are sure it has expired.”

He continued in this excited strain during lunch, and Madge found that she too was in the same vein. War was in the air, and while the crowds in London were cheering aloud and singing “God Save the Queen!” with flashing eyes, the little group of three at the table in that old Somerset hall stood up and drank to the success of the Queen’s soldiers in South Africa. Around them on the oak panels were the pictures of Harlands in red coats, Harlands in blue coats, Harlands in the demi-armour of the Stuarts, Harlands in the chain mail of the Lancastrians. Every man of them carried a sword and kept his eyes fixed on the living head of their house sternly, anxiously.

And that was why Julian, after drinking to the toast which he had given a moment before, remained on his feet with his glass still in his hand, and with his eyes looking from picture to picture as though he had never seen one of them previously in his life.

His mother watched him, so did Madge.

The glass dropped from his hand and was smashed in pieces on the floor, and he fell back into his chair and gave a loud laugh.

“That’s Kruger!” he cried: “smashed!—smashed!—beyond recovery!—beyond coaguline—smashed—and without a Harland raising his hand against him,—that’s what they are saying—those Harlands that have had their eyes fixed on me, as if I needed their prompting. Come along, sweet womenfolk, and have a look at the sundial that Rogers unearthed when digging the new rose-bed, where the remains of the old maze were,—the date is carved on it, 1472 a.d. Just think of it, hidden for perhaps three hundred years and only unearthed yesterday, at the very hour that you promised to be my own Madge! A good omen! What does it mean except that a new era for the old house is beginning? Come along, my dearest.”

There was no great alacrity in Madge’s response to his challenge.

II.

His father was killed in the Soudan, having inherited the property when his elder brother had been killed, a few years before, in Zulu-land. Four brothers, all of them men of splendid physique, had been slain in battle within a space of four years, and three widows and many children had been left desolate.

He knew the story of heroism associated with every one of the four, and he knew the stories of the heroism associated with the death of his grandfather at the Alma, and his greatgrandfather at Waterloo. That was why he had taken it for granted from his earliest years that he was to be a solder. It never occurred to him that there was any other destiny possible for a Harland of the Hall.

But when his mother came to him one day and poured her plaint into his ear, entreating him for her sake to think of himself as associated with a happier fate, he had yielded to her, though he made no admissions in regard to the comparative happiness involved in the fate of dying on the field of battle, or as a senile fox-hunter after a protracted run to hounds. He showed himself to be a dutiful son, and he went to Oxford and then ate his dinners at the Temple, as he believed a reasonably aspiring country gentleman should do if he wished to retain his self-respect. He had also drilled every year with the Militia regiment in which he held a commission, and was rapidly qualifying for the rank of major.

But during these years the country was engaged in no war that made any great demand upon its resources: he had no great temptation to go against the Afridis, and he felt sure that Khartoum could be reached by Kitchener without his personal supervision. But his mother noticed a change upon him as he read day by day of the probabilities of a war breaking out between England and the Transvaal. A strange uneasiness seemed to have come over him, and he talked of nothing except South Africa as a campaigning ground.

His mother became more uneasy than he was, and she was only in a measure relieved when one day he came to her, telling her that he had asked Madge Winston, the daughter of the Vicar of Hurst Harland, to marry him, and that she had consented. Mrs Harland told him that he had made her the happiest mother in the world; but from the chat, just recorded, which she had with Madge in the hall before Julian had returned with the news of the ultimatum, it will be gathered that she had still some misgivings.

They were strengthened by observing Julian’s strange behaviour during the drinking of the toast. She saw the light that was in his eyes as he talked a little wildly about the coming campaign. She had seen such a light in the eyes of his father when talking of a coming campaign. She knew what it meant.

She did not accompany Julian and Madge when they went out together to look at the old pillar sundial which a gardener had dug up the day before. She was happily able to make a reasonable excuse for staying behind: a servant had just brought her a message to the effect that one of the lacemakers of the village had come by appointment to see her. She had interested herself for several years in the lacemaking, and was in the habit of getting old pieces of her own splendid collection repaired by one of the cleverest of the girls.

This girl was still in the hall when Julian and Madge were driven indoors by a slight shower, and Mrs Harland showed them the piece of work which she had had mended. It was a delicate handkerchief bordered with rosebuds, and curiously enough, as Julian pointed out, the sprays arranged themselves so as to form a constant repetition of the letter M.

“That stands for Madge, doesn’t it?” cried he.

“It stands for Medici,” said his mother. “This particular piece of lace belonged to Marie de’ Medici, though no one ever noticed that the rosebuds entwined themselves into the letter M.”

“I will buy the handkerchief from my mother for you, Madge,” he cried. “Who knows what magic may be ‘in the web of it,’ like poor Desdemona’s! These Medici were uncanny folk. The earlier ones certainly understood the art of magic as practised by the highest authorities in the Middle Ages. Yes, the M stands for Madge. Take it, dear, I won’t be so ungracious as to add Othello’s charge to Desdemona about keeping it; and if I should find it in a railway carriage or anywhere else in years to come, you may make your mind easy. I’ll not strangle you on that account.”

“I got it mended on purpose for you, Madge,” said Mrs Harland.

“You are so good,” said the girl, spreading out the filmy thing admiringly. “You know that there is nothing I love so well as lace, and this design is the most perfect that could be imagined. A thousand thanks, dearest mother.”

Julian seemed before the evening to have become quite resigned to staying at home; and during the next few weeks, though he followed the progress of the preparations for the campaign with great interest, pointing out what he believed would be the plans of each of the divisional commanders to his mother and Madge, yet he never semed to be unduly eager in the matter. He seemed to look on the campaign in a purely academic spirit—merely as a Kriegspiel,—and his mother’s fears vanished. She blessed the day that Madge had come to the Hall. It was Madge, and Madge only, who had succeeded in restraining his burning desire to be in the thick of the fight.

But, then, following swiftly upon the news of the arrival of the First Army Corps and the successes of the sorties from Ladysmith, which elated the whole of England for some days, came like a thunderclap the news of a disaster—a second disaster—a third! It seemed as if the campaign was going to collapse before it had well begun. The change made itself apparent in every part of England—in every household in England, and in none more vividly than at Harland Hall. A change had come over Julian; he had no word for any one; he walked moodily about the house and the grounds, taking no interest in anything. He made an excuse for going up to London for a day or two, and he returned with a mass of news. The country had been taken by surprise in regard to the Boer preparations. The campaign was going to be a long one, and every available man was to be called out; he had it from good authority—the best authority in the world.

His mother saw that the old light had come back to his eyes, and she shuddered.

The next morning when Madge came downstairs she saw her sitting in the hall, with her head bent down, her son standing over her with a paper in his hands.

“Madge! Madge!” cried the mother, “you will tell him to stay; he is going to leave us, but you will tell him to stay. He will stay if you implore of him.”

“Yes,” said he, “I will stay if Madge asks me; but she will not ask me.”

“You will ask him—you will implore of him to stay, Madge, my daughter!” cried Mrs Harland.

There was a long silence. The girl had become deathly pale. She stood at her chair at the table. She did not speak.

“Why are you silent?—why are you dumb?” cried the mother. “Will you see him go forth to die, as all the others of his family have done in the past? Cannot you understand what has happened? Oh! you have only just come down. You have not heard the news: the last of the Reserves have been called out, and volunteers are being called on from the Militia!”

“And I have volunteered,” said Julian in a low voice.

She was still deathly pale. Her hands grasped the carved back of the chair. She did not speak.

“Dear Madge, you will tell him?” began Mrs Harland.

“Yes,” said the girl, “I will tell him that I am proud of him—that if he had remained at home now I would never have married him!”

She walked steadily across the hall and put both her hands out to him. He took them in his own, and bent his head down to them, kissing each of them.

Then he raised his head and looked round at the portraits in the panels, and laughed.

He left the Hall in the evening.

III.

It was the most dismal Christmas that any one in England could remember. Here and there a success had been snatched from the enemy; but the list of casualties published every day made the morning papers a terror to read. The British losses had passed the tenth thousand, and still Buller could not reach Ladysmith and Methuen could not cross the Modder. It seemed as if the last of the Egyptian plagues had fallen on England, and there was not a household in which there was not one dead!

It was a dreary Christmas at Harland Hall. News had arrived a few days previously of Julian’s safe arrival at the Cape and of his having taken part in a skirmish on his way to the front. Every morning his mother and Madge—who had come to stay at the Hall for another month—picked up the newspaper and glanced with fearing eyes down the usual casualty list. When they failed to find his name there they breathed again. There was no thought of festivity in the Hall this Christmas Day, and it was a relief to Madge as well as to Mrs Harland when bedtime came. Before going to bed the girl sat for some time before the fire in her room, with Julian’s portrait in her hand, and on her lap some of the things which his hands had touched—a shrivelled November rose which he had discovered on the last stroll they had together through the garden—a swan’s feather which he had picked up and thrust with a laugh and a mock taunt into her hair—the lace handkerchief which had been given to her on the day of the outbreak of the war. She sat there lost in her own thoughts—praying her own prayers.

Suddenly she became aware of an unusual sound—a sort of tap at rare intervals upon her window-pane. At first she fancied that it was a twig of ivy which was being blown by the breeze against the window, but the next time the sound came she felt sure that it could only be produced by a tiny pebble flung up from the carriage drive.

For a few moments she was slightly alarmed. She quickly extinguished her candle, however, and then went to the window, drawing the blind a little way to one side and peering out. There was no moon, but the sky was full of stars, and she knew that if any one was on the drive there was light enough to make her aware of the fact. For some time, however, her eyes, accustomed to the light of her room, were unable to make out any figure below; but after waiting at the window for a few minutes, it seemed to her that she could detect the figure of a man in the middle of the drive.

She shut out all the light of the fire behind her and continued peering. Beyond a doubt there was a man outside. He was waving something white up to her. In another instant she knew him. A terrible fear took hold upon her, for she knew that she was looking out at a man in khaki uniform, and she knew that that man was Julian Harland. And now she saw him distinctly in the starlight: he was making signs to her, pointing to the porch and walking in that direction.

She dropped the blind. There was no doubt whatever in her mind now: Julian had returned suddenly, and for some reason he wished to be admitted into the house secretly.

She stole down the broad shallow staircase into the hall, and by the light of the glowing logs which smouldered in the big grate she found her way to the oaken door that shut off the porch from the hall. She loosened its chains as silently as possible, and opened it. Then she went through to the porch and found herself standing opposite the studded hall door. There she paused for an instant, asking herself if she should open it.

A low tap sounded on it from the outside.

“I am here,” she said in a low voice; “am I to open the door for you, Julian?”

“Open, Madge, quick—quick, I am wounded,” he said.

With trembling fingers she unfastened the bolt, opened the door, and allowed him to pass into the porch.

“O, my darling, have you been wounded?” she cried. She had not put herself into his arms: she had a sense of his being wounded, and she was afraid of hurting him by coming in contact with the wound. She felt his hand on hers.

“It is really only a trifle, Madge,” said he; “you will be able to bind it up for me, and you must not awaken poor mother. The shock of seeing me might kill her.”

They went side by side into the hall, and he sank down with a sigh of relief on the big settee before the fire. She broke up one of the smouldering logs, and it glowed into a great flame which showed her that his face was very pale and that he had grown a beard.

She was on her knees at his knees in a moment.

“Dearest Julian!” she cried, with her arms about him, “how did you come without sending me word? Oh, where are you wounded?”

“The arm—the right,” he said rather feebly. “It is only a flesh wound, I know, but it was enough to knock me over, and it has been bleeding badly. If you wash it and bind it up a bit, however, it will be all right until the morning, when I can have it looked to.”

Slowly and painfully he raised his right arm. He had apparently slit up the sleeve of his tunic, and the pieces fell away to the right and left of his arm, showing her a wound black with coagulated blood.

“My poor boy—my poor boy!” she said. “I shall do my best with it; but it is an ugly wound. Why should I not send a man to the surgery? Dr Gwynne will come at once.”

“No, no,” he said; “I don’t want to make a fuss at this hour. You can manage without outside help. Hadn’t you better light the candles?”

She sprang to her feet, and picking up one of the long chips from the log basket, lighted it in the fire and then transferred the flame to two of the old sconces at the side of the fireplace. As the light flickered on him she saw that his tunic was torn and splashed, and that his putties were caked with mire. No wayside tramp could be in a more dilapidated condition than Julian was in. He had clearly been walking some distance; and yet she could not recollect seeing any clay for miles around of the same tint as that which was caked upon his garments.

She was about to ask him why he should not go upstairs to his own room where she could attend to him properly, but she restrained her nurse’s instinct to ask an irritated patient questions. She examined the wound and said—

“I will wash it for you and bind it up till the morning. I shall get a basin in my own room.”

“‘A ministering angel thou!’” he said, with a very wan smile. “By the way, Madge, do you remember the lace handkerchief—the Medici handkerchief?”

“I was looking at it only an hour ago,” she said.

“‘There’s magic in the web of it,” he said. “Fetch it and bind up my wound with that cobweb drawn over rosebuds and I shall be all right.”

She hastened to her room, and in a few moments had picked out from a drawer some soft linen, a bottle of arnica, and a pair of scissors. She had attended ambulance classes, and had confidence in her own capacity to deal with any ordinary “case.” Then she put the lace Medici handkerchief with the other appliances, and, carrying a large china bowl with her water jug, came quietly down the stairs once more.

He had fallen asleep on the settee, but in an instant he was awake. He was plainly vigilant at once.

“It is beginning to feel a bit stiff, but that is on account of the bleeding,” he said. “I knew I was doing wisely in awaking you only. I couldn’t stand a fuss.”

“I will make no fuss,” she said, “and I shall hurt you as little as possible. I will even refrain from asking you any questions.”

“That’s right; I feel so sleepy,” said he.

In a deft and businesslike way she washed the clotted blood from the wound, and she quickly perceived that it was only a deep flesh wound, but it had bled a great deal and that had weakened him. She bandaged the arm with layers of linen, and when the bandage was secure he cried—

“Now for the handkerchief—that will make me all right in a moment. The earlier Medici were, I told you, wonderful folk, though the later——Ah, you are a good girl.”

She knew that he must be humoured. She made no protest against using her handkerchief in such a way.

“You have no idea how relieved I feel,” said he. “My dearest girl, I knew that I would be safe in your hands. Now get me a big drink of water and I shall be all right.”

She hastened to where a great cut-glass carafe and its goblet stood on the oak sideboard. He gave an exclamation that suggested more than satisfaction while the water was sobbing in the throat of the bottle, and when he had drunk a clear pint he gave a sigh.

“I haven’t had such a drink for weeks,” he said. “Now, dear girl, I’m dying with sleep, and so, I fancy, are you.”

“You do not mean to sleep here?” she cried. “You will go to your own room, Julian, dear; a fire has been lighted in it every day to keep out any possible damp.”

“I couldn’t think of such luxury when so many of my poor comrades are lying under the cold stars,” said he. “Don’t urge me, Madge; but go to your own bed and sleep well.”

Even while she was still looking at him, he laid his head back among the pillows of the settee and fell asleep. She waited by his side only for a few moments, and then went quietly up to her room. She threw herself on her knees by her bedside and wept tears of joy at the thought that he had come safe home again, with only a wound that a few weeks would heal.

But when she had undressed and got into bed she could not help feeling that his homecoming was strange beyond imagination. He had sent no telegram, he had arrived with the stains of battle still on his uniform, and, strangest of all, his wound was not an old one. Not many hours had passed since he had sustained it.

What on earth was the explanation of all this?

She felt unequal to the task of working out the question. She felt that all other thoughts should give place to the glorious thought that he was safe at home. He would explain everything in the morning.

IV.

When she awoke this thought was dominant. He was at home—safe—safe!

She listened at the door of his room to catch his cheery laughter with the first of the servants who might discover him. But no such sound came to her ears. She was nearly dressed when Mrs Harland entered her room.

“Well!” she cried. “Well! you have seen him? Good heavens, why do you look at me in that way? Have you not seen him?”

“Dear Madge,” said Mrs Harland, “your eyes have a strange gleam in them. What do you mean by asking me if I have seen him—him? Is there more than one him for me and for you?”

“But he came here late last night, he threw pebbles up at that window, and I let him into the hall and bound up a wound of his—a flesh wound only. I left him sleeping on the settee.”

Mrs Harland stared at her.

“My poor Madge!” she said. “You have had a vivid dream. How could he possibly have been here when not a week has passed since we got a cablegram from him? It would take him a week to get back to Cape Town alone.”

“I don’t try to explain anything,” said she. “Only he came into the hall as sure as we stand here together, and I bound up his wound—just below the elbow of the right arm. If I did not do so, where is the lace handkerchief? Here are all the things I was looking at before I heard the sound of the pebbles on the window, and the Medici handkerchief was there too. Where is it now?”

“Poor child! Poor Madge!” cried Mrs Harland. “You must try to keep your thoughts away from him for a day or two. You and I need a change of scene badly.”

“Oh, no; I am not going mad, I can assure you, my dearest mother,” said Madge. “I tell you that—where is the handkerchief?”

“There is the breakfast gong,” said Mrs Harland. “I believe you, dear; you were with him in heart.”

Madge laughed, and went downstairs. She gave a glance at the sconce in which she had lighted the candles; it contained four candles burnt down to the sockets.

The papers had no special news; but later in the day two telegrams arrived. One was for Mrs Harland, the other for Madge.

They tore open the covers with palpitating fingers.

The first dispatch said:

“Flesh wound—very slight.” The second—that addressed to Madge—said: “Thank you, dearest.” They exchanged telegrams, but not a word.

He was invalided home after acting as escort to Cronje down to Cape Town, and saving a gun at Reddersburg (mentioned in despatches), but no one alluded to the wound which he had sustained on Christmas Day in a skirmish at the Modder.

One evening, however, when he was able to sit outside the house, Madge turned to him, saying: “What did you mean by sending me that telegram, ‘Thank you, dearest?”

He gave a laugh.

“I wonder if you have still by you that Medici handkerchief?” he said.

“No,” she said, after a moment’s hesitation, “I must plead as Desdemona did about hers, it disappeared mysteriously. I cannot produce it for you, my lord.”

“Ah, now I should get as mad as any Othello,” said he, “but on second thoughts I will refrain.”

“Listen, dear Julian,” she said. “I am resolved to confess all to you, though you may think me a bit of a fool. Listen: on Christmas night I went to my room and seated myself before the fire, thinking of you, dearest,—your portrait was in my hands, and on the table were some of the treasures your hands had touched, the handkerchief among them. Then I heard—I seemed to hear—no, I prefer to tell the truth—I actually heard the sound of a pebble flung against my window. I looked out, I saw you on the drive, and I went downstairs and opened the hall door for you. You were wounded just where you were actually wounded—and I bound up your arm with the handkerchief and went to bed. In the morning there was no sign of your having been here, but—but—the handkerchief was gone. Don’t think me a goose.”

“A goose? Heavens! a goose!” he cried. “Listen to my story, dear. When I was wounded in that scrimmage, I fainted through loss of blood, and when I recovered my senses I went in search of the ambulance tent. It was late before I came across a transport waggon, which had been disabled by a shell. I crept inside it, but found nothing there, and I was dying of thirst. And then—then—you came to me with bandages and water—plenty of water in the cut-glass carafe that stands on the sideboard. You lighted a candle, bound up my arm, and left me comfortably asleep, where I was found by our ambulance in the morning. Yes, that’s the truth, and that is why I sent you the telegram, and this is the handkerchief with the stains upon it still.”

He drew the lace handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. She gazed at it, but he only laughed and said—

“I told you ‘there’s magic in the web of it.’”