Her room was always kept ready for her. Often she would lie there, watching the moonlight creep across the floor; and a curious feeling would come to her of being something wandering, incomplete. She would see as through a mist the passionate, restless child with the rebellious eyes to whom the room had once belonged; and later the strangely self-possessed girl with that impalpable veil of mystery around her who would stand with folded hands, there by the window, seeming always to be listening. And she, too, had passed away. The tears would come into her eyes, and she would stretch out yearning arms towards their shadowy forms. But they would only turn upon her eyes that saw not, and would fade away. He laughed. “I told you I’d be all right if you started me on China,” he said.!

It struck her that he was relieved. He gave the man the address, speaking hurriedly, and jumped in. He had risen. “Don’t you see,” he said. “It is only by suffering that one can help Him. It is the sword that He has chosen—by which one day He will conquer the world. And this is such a splendid opportunity to fight for Him. It would be like deserting Him on the eve of a great battle.”

Joan found herself poking the fire. “Have you known Mary Stopperton long?” she asked. “I was going to buy you a present,” he grumbled. “But you wouldn’t let me get up.” “Will it shock you, Dad?” she asked.