SOME weeks later, on a cold Sunday morning in November, Sir Josiah and Lady Munt drove over to Torrington Cottage. They were accompanied by Sally, on short leave from France, and by Gertrude Preston. Before the party walked across the village green to the little parish church, where a service of National Thanksgiving was to be held, it found that a matter of great importance claimed attention.

The matter was Jim. The rector of the parish had arranged to christen him that afternoon at three o’clock. Near a good log fire in the sunny embrasure of the charming little drawing-room his grand cradle had been set; and here the wonderful infant was duly inspected by his godparents.

Jim was a picture. His grandfather said he was. There was no other word. Yet even in the presence of this phenomenal youth there was but a chastened joy. He was sleeping for one thing, calmly, sweetly and superbly; and his pale, fine-drawn, yet strangely proud-looking mother was clad in the livery of widowhood.

Said Josiah in a low voice, so as not to wake the baby, “What’s happened to the picture that used to be there?” He pointed to the wall above the chimneypiece.

“It fell down, Dad.” The voice of Melia was calm.

“When?”

“One night last week—the night before the news came.”

“You don’t say!” Josiah was not superstitious, still it was queer.

“No one was in the room when it happened. No one heard it fall. Didn’t break the frame or the glass or anything. Just the snapping of the cord.”

“War cord, I expect.” Josiah’s voice was grim. “Need a cord of a better quality to hang a certain party. Better have it put up again. Young Nixey tells me that picture may be worth a sight o’ money.”

Melia promised that it should be put up again. He always set such great store by it.

Of a sudden, Sally, who had been wholly absorbed in the contemplation of James, said, “Tell me, Father, when did you last see young Nixey?”

“Thursday—Friday. Happened to look in Friday morning as I was passing.”

“How was he?”

“Wonderfully cheerful considerin’. Tries to gammon his old mother, but I guess the old lady knows....”

“... he’ll never....”

“No, poor fellow. Wonderful pluck. Tells me he’s plannin’ a cathedral ... a cathedral, mark you ... and stone blind.”

Sally sighed a little and turned again to look at Jim. Aunt Gerty laid a white-gloved hand gently on the Mayor’s sleeve. “Ten minutes to eleven, Josiah. Won’t do to be late—you of all people. Will it Maria?”

---