A pall of mist and driving rain closed upon the city as evening fell, as if Nature flung a veil between herself and the handiwork of her passions. Through it the launch of the DiomÈde threaded the network of the shipping.

Warmly red against the ghost-like paintwork, the ports of The Morning Star beamed up out of the smother. Aylmer held up his hand. Silently, with stopped engines, the boat slid up to the accommodation ladder, and as silently Aylmer swung himself aboard.

With a gesture of farewell to the boat's crew and one of greeting to the sailor at the gangway head, he passed into the companion and went below. In the doorway of the saloon he halted.

Two figures sat at the table, a picture book open before them. Claire's arm was about her little nephew's shoulder. His face was turned up to hers, but his finger still pointed to the page which they had been studying.

"And was he brave, enormously brave?" he was asking. "As brave as—as Muhammed?"

"Braver than Muhammed," she said quietly. "Because he was—good."

He debated a moment.

"As brave as the pig man, then?" he suggested. "He's been good, always?"

Aylmer stepped forward.

"Not always," he said smiling. "Not even often. But just as much as he knew how to be."

The glances which met his were startled but full of welcome. With a cackle of delight little John ran from his seat.

"It's him, himself—the pig man!" he cried.

Aylmer smiled and held out his hand.

Then he turned.

In Claire's eyes the surprise had vanished. They were full of inquiry, of an agony of question. Her lips were pale and faltered over the words which would not come.

He nodded, gravely, significantly.

She gave a little gasp. The color rushed to her cheeks, flooded to her brow. As if some strong chord of tension had broken in her breast, she leaned against the table, quivering.

"Yes," said Aylmer, quietly. "That shadow is lifted from our lives. He is gone—God's hand fell upon him—as you told him it would. The future of this life," he laid his fingers tenderly upon the child's head, "is in your hands now." He paused. "And my life, Claire—that is yours, too, to deal with, as you will."

She lifted her head.

The wave of emotion had passed and left her calm again. The haggardness, the anxious lines, were smoothed. Only in her eyes remained the mist of unshed tears. And as the mist sinks from the face of the risen sun, so the shadow of passed sorrow fled before her dawning smile. Slowly she came towards him.

With a sigh of infinite content her hands reached out to—and placed their surrender in—his.