"GWEN."

Star (Christchurch), Issue 10753, 26 April 1913, Page 8

"GWEN."

(By SIDNEY VERNON lIALL.)

[All Rights Reserved.]

CHAPTER I

In the doorway of a little suburban cottage stood a woman, or rather girl, for Bite was only twenty-three, clad iu a severely simple black dress, which, mado her figure appear even slighter than it was. in her baud she held an open letter, and as she jread it through for tho twentieth time she crushed it convulsively into a ball, an though by that action sho would also crush out of existence; the fo? lings that were surging and welling in her heart, and bringing the tears to her eyes. "My hoy, my hoy,'' she said, covering her face with her hands, while tho letter dropped to the floor. Then in an instant the brave, sweet face was lifted 10 tho sunset glory again, and tho light of mother-love in the brown eyes was wondrous to behold. ''Hughie, ' she called gently to the wee hoy who was having such a glorious romp on the grass with an excited, shaggy-haired puppy, and who was from time to time emitting shrieks of delight and joy. " 'lis-s, want me, iraimmy?" and tho child, all hot and flowing with his exertion, came over to where she had seated herself on the doorstep. Ho leaned his two chubby hands on her kneo and she lifted him up with that yearning mother-hunger which is never completely satisfied—that great heart-ten-derness which every true woman knows. " You'vo been having just lovely fun with Mack, darling, haven't you?" she asked, as sho rubbed hor cheek against his brown hair. His eyes sparkled. " Oh, mummy. Mack tipped mo wight over, lots of times. Ho poked wiv liis nose and his foots, like vis—" and the happy j merry laugh rang out into tho soft evening air.

"Did he. darling?" The smile was lovely to see. " How would Hughie like to go over the sea in a big ship and live with grandfather in England? And there would be Auntie Alice, too. She would lovo my little tlughie." "Mummy, too," said the child, putting his little soft arms around her neck, " Hughie not go wivout mummy." "Mummy" know sho could not go, but she only pressed him closer and said nothing. Ah, what would life be worth now without the close, warm touch of that sturdy little form, and the loving pressure of those sun-brown-ed hands and arms.

All right, Boysio," she said, at last, "and now mummy must get tea for her hungry boy. Down, Mack, down! Does Mack want his tea, too, Hughie? You play with him again till it is all ready, and then you'll both have some. But you want mummy to havo one romp with you first?" The lay on the grass and allowed him to sit on her and play with her as he liked, and whatever he did, Mack, of course, must do also. Every time flughie shouted, Mack barked; and when Hughie laughed in glee, short, stumpy tail wagged as though it were made of springs, and could not possibly 6top. "Oh, Mack, you rogue!" said mother; and Mack taking it as an endearment, quite understood. The garden, though somewhat of a wilderness, was redolent of spring. The old apple-trees were laden with masses of delicate pink-and-white blossom, and showers of the cool, pure, fragrant petals kept falling on thoir faces as they lay making merry there, and looking up, through the wonderful vistas of fairy-like daintiness to the beautiful azure of the sky above. The charm of the spring was everywhere. From the border at the side of the house was borne on the faint breeze the delicious scent of violets, and the pale gentle primroses looked so sweet and pure against their background of darkgreen corrugated leaves. The narcissi too, as though they knew the long day was closing, and would fain add their quota of richness to the hour, were especially lavish with their wealth of perfume, almost overpowering in its sweetness. The daffodils, having no perfume, but only their brightness to give, nodded their golden heads gaily, and to those that loved them best and bent close enough to detect it, imparted their secret and subtle earthy fragrance, redolent with the always and always. Somehow mother, once more experiencing the mystery, and the wonderful, throbbing joy of newly awakened life. No wonder that to many the daffodil, herald of the spring, is the dearest of all flowers. To Hughie the season was one dream of delight in which he revelled from morn till eve. If only it would last always and always. Somehow mother too, seemed like a little girl as she played with him under the blossoms at times, or the two of them, with Mack went for a walk on the hills or beside the hedges just snowy with beautiful white may blossoms. Hughie did not understand why in the midst of all this beauty and joy of new life, mother would sometimes press him closer to her heart; nor the ache that looked out of the brown eyes occasionally when she had been the gayest of them all. It was in them now, as she played for five minutes under the trees.

" Mummy, your hair's all shining," said Hughie. "So it is," barked Mack, coming also to have a look at the brown tresses which the sun had touched to gold, and which waved so softly over the broad brow.

But mother's plav-time was over, and so in a little while was Hughie's. By the time the pale evening stars began to peep in the darkling blue above, and the last glimmer of sunset radiance had completely disappeared from the western sky, the child was sound asleep in his little cot, and mother sat in the deepening twilight by the open window, that crushed and crumpled letter spread once more upon her lap. It was almost dark, but she pushed tho snowy muslin curtain a little further back, and by the aid of memory, could once again decipher the stiff, and, to a mother, cuttingly cruel epistle. It. was from her late husband's family in England. Ah, how tempted sho now felt to hate that well-known crest and signature, and to wish that Philip ha.d belonged only to an ordinary middle-class family. Sho _ went over and over again in her mind various sentences in the letter.

" If you will send us the boy, Philip's child, to be brought up as befits one of our family in our own home, and to receive the advantages of birth, breeding and education which his father threw away, and if you will give up all your own claim upon him, vie shall continue the allowance we have so far made to you as Philip's widow. Should you see fit to refuse-, we .shall discontinue the same at the expiry of this present year." It ended with a request to communicate her decision to their solicitors.

She laid her arms upon the windowsill, and rested her hot cheek upon them; but the quiet stars above offered no solution of her difficulty. Her heart said:

" Nothing can take the place of tlio mother's love he would lose. It will bo as though he had never known it; and no one would care for him as his mother. God gave him to me to tram and guard and love. .He is mine and Philip's, and no one else has any right to him." Her reason snkl:

" Though yon work your fingers to the bone, you could never give him the education and advantages you will give him if you make this sacrifice. What though he would cry for hi* mother! He would soon forgot: a child always docs. Though Philip hated the pride and conservatism of that life, and said

it was nofc to bo compared with tho colonies, how do you know Hughie will say that when he is a man ? Ho may reproach his mother for never having given him his right." Thus the two voices within kept on pitilessly, and between thorn by-and-by .she was plunged into a reverie of the past. The night air was so cool and fresh, and a sweet, tremulous hush brooded over everything. But tinio and piaco vanished. Hor thoughts wore in her happy girlhood, before Philip came. Like many another, she had not realised how happy that time really had boon, until long after it had passed. She saw the okl country house with ivy rioting lip the chimneys ; the verandah hung with Virginian creeper, in autumn nnn bl:i-o of colour; her mother, whoso hair when last sho saw it war. a beautiful silver grey, but Meta. Palmer had said it was now quite white; and .Dad— Dad, who was so irascible and stormy when his temper was roused, but, after all. was good at heart, although his prido would never let him own that he had been wrong. Then there was Alan, her brother, and TVrt Graham. Sho know now what Bert had wanted in those old days, though she had not known then. How cruelly ho had been thrust aside when Philip caniol After all, perhaps she had deserved it ailthat hor father should so disapprove ot hor marrying Philip find should send her forth" on her marriage day saying ho washed his hands of her and did not want to see her again. She had made her choice, and must take the consequences. How bitter the consequences had been! A happy six weeks, and then tho sickening certainty that the joy time was over, and she must note with growing anxiety the hectic flush on Philip's cheeks and the cough that he still persisted was "only an indigestion cough." And so it had come about that there had been so little time for love in her married life. At the time when sho should have knofvn all the warmth and sheltering tenderness •of love she had had to devote all her energies to nursiug. But it had meant much to Philip to have her with him in those last days. She could feel again the convulsive tightening of his hand and hear tho sob in his voice as he said, on one of his most trying days, "Oh, Gwen! If I had only known, we would never have married. I've been nothing else but a source of werry to you, girlie, and have spoiled your life."

Then, as he met her true, brp.ve eyes —brave for him—ho took heart again, and planned so many joys for the days that would be when he " got well." And then came the advent of Hughie, on whose baby brow in the silences fell the hot tears pent uj> for so long; but no eye save those ol the invisible Presence ever saw themWould she ever forget Philip's look of delight when he first handled his own child; and just because it was his child a vagua fear that she dared not put into words sometimes stole into her heart, which would only be dispelled by a long look at her bonny, healthy boy. But one day Philip took the journey which in his weariness and dependency he had been longing to take, and Hughie was fatherless. All the love which so far had been expended in active service and ministry was now lavished upon Hughie, and in her heart echoed and re-echoed' those last words: "He will be a comfort to you, my Gwen, for I know how lonely you wiil feel for a time."

Suddenly these words cam© to her now with all the force of decision. She lifted her head and gazed for a moment with shining eyes at the steady, faithful stars.

" I cannot let liim go," she said, " and Philip would not wish it. And somehow I shall be able to provide for my boy." She pulled down the window, lit the lamp and stirred the fire. She was alone in the house to-night, for the girl who boarded with her for company would not be back for several hours yet.

A step on the gravel path, and the front-cloor bell rang. She stood the lamp on the tiny hall table and opened the door. It was not the visitor she had expected, but oh, how much better . Her hands were stretched' out eagerly to her tall, splendidly-built brother who stood there, and who took them in his own.

Alan, Alan," she cried out at last, with a little sob in her voice, and nothing more was said until they stood m the little dining-room before the fire. Alan's quick eye already noted the changes in his sister, brought with her mature womanhoodj and the look of sweet dignity and patience which sorrow had left there.

Before Gwen had time to think of all iho tilings she was longing to know about home, Alan, still with arm through hers, and standing together thus in the firelight, said: I have come, Gwen, with a message from mother. She wants you and your boy. In fact, I think she is just pining away for you, and if I were vou I should go as soon as I could." " And Dad?" faltered Gwen. She could hardly realise yet that it really was Alan there, bearing a message from home.

Oh he, as usual, says nothing. But from the look in his eyes sometimes when he comes in and looks round, I am certain he wants you as much as mother. They are both getting old now, Gwen.

He produced a box from; his greatcoat pocket. ''These are violets that mother gathered especially this morning, and sent them with her love. They are from your own violet bed."

Sho buried her face among the sweet fragrant flowers, her tears adding to their rich purple "lustre.

, " Oh, Alan, you don't know what it is to me to hay© vou here and hear from home again. I'll go to-morrow. I know you'll help me with my boxes and get the cab for me, won't you ? It is so lovely to feel a brother's strength behind one again. But you'd like to see Hughie before we begin to talk, Alan, wouldn't you? There's so much I want to ask vou."

Hughie was sleeping with his chubby brown fists under his chin, his brown curk pushed back from his face, and his lips parted in a happy smile. How tenderly Gwen bent over him. and what a beautiful mother she made. Even Alan thought so as he saw her in her (to him) new capacity. Then he. too, bent over and kissed the boy's lips. "He's just the sunbeam we want in the old home, Gwen, and what a fine healthy boy." "Yes, thank God." was the answer, and Alan understood, the world or meaning that was unspoken. An hour later, when Alan had gone back to town, she stood a few minutes before packing for to-morrow, a glad little smile upon her face. But though she pondered much she did not know all that Alan's coming meant to her. CHAPTER. 11. The train was at length moving out of the side station where she had been making quite a long stop, and Gwen drew a sigh, of relief. Only two stops after this one, and then-—home. She looked at Hughie, sleeping so peacefully in hpr arms. How beautiful was his childish trust in mother and in her protection. He knew no harm could come to him when that watchful care ""as present. They had just, passed the most dangerous part of the journey, and others of the passengers had been imagining how dreadful it would be if " such and such a thing really did happen, as, indeed, it might easily." But Hughie, with his linger round mother's, oared not for it. The conductor unexpectedly came through from another part of the carriage, and the wind closed the door behind him with a hang that made several start from their seats: but Hughie only stirred in his sleep, smiled, and clung [lie tighter. Somehow, to Gwen, watching, it appealed ns it had never done before. " While He watches over us. Boysie. we cannot fear," sho murmured under her breath, "and we shall manage to keep together in spite of an English gra 11 dfatii or and Aunt Alice."

The I'act Uxnt Ihe.v were approaching

her old home so swiftly mado Gwen remember onco more her old interests, and she plied Alan with questions concerning hockey and tennis —who were the best players ; wero many of tho old members left? did the doctor still keep them all enthusiastic as lie used to do? But. hurrah ! here was the homo station at last, and there was Dad waiting in tho road with the buggy. Everything seemed radiant and happy this afternoon of Owen's return—radiant as tho light of tho setting sun, as it gleamed like firo through the dark, sombre blue-gums of Westhrook Farm. Hughio waved hi?, tiny brown hand at tho window as Gwen told him, and, when ho saw Alan's signal with it, Dad knew he hail not come in vain.

" Now, Gwen, let's bustle." said Alan. " You take Hughie, and I'll collect your things." In a moment they were on the white road. "Oh, Dad!" said Gwen, her arms stretched out to the old man whose eyes were glistening strangely at tho sight of that slim, black-robed figure. "Well, my girl, so vou'vo come back to us again, have you?" ho said, patting her shoulder in the way he had always done when she was a schoolgirl returning for her holidays. "This is Hughio, Dad. Have you got a kiss for Grandpa, Hughie?" How strange the unfamiliar name sounded in his ears; but it pleased him. At tho side of the orchard, now one mass of blossom, whito and rich pink, stood " Home," just as she had always known it. Yes, and there, too. was the garden she had always tended herself. Ah! tho violets had brought her homo, and that dear, yearning figure on tho verandah, with tho outstretched arms' and the whito hair.

Alan was reading the morning paper, while Hughie, with evident enjoyment, was disposing of his first plateful of '' country '' porridge. An exclamation from beliind the paper called for inquiries. "There's news of Bert Graham in connection with the engagement with the enemy reported yesterday," he said. "Bert Graham—at the war!" cried Gwen, the colour in hor cheeks deepening. Her eyes met her brother's, and then sank before their calm, unflinching gaze. She understood what that look meant. She, as much as his country's need, had sent Bert there. "He has been specially mentioned for bravery," went on Alan, also one or two others; but there is quit© a paragraph about his heroism. He has been seriously wounded, and—oh, mother, get on your bonnet as quick as you can, and go to Mrs Graham, for her boy will never come back to her."

Alan and Bert had been chums in every sense of the word since boyhood, and in his own grief he was merciless. He saw without appearing to notice that Gwen's flush faded, leaving her face a deathly white. On some pretext or other she left the room, and Alari followed her into the little sitting-room, where, on hearing his footsteps, she began fumbling with the curtain, but not seeing what sho was doing. He shut the door. "It is a brutal thing to say,' I know," he said, " but you know quite well that I believe you were responsible for Bert's going to the war, and therefore for his mother's grief and loss, and ours too. In fact, I know you were. You girls beat me altogether. How you can marry one man while you love another, I'm sure I don't know." "Oh, Alan, don't 1" she cried, turning to him piteously. " Don't—or hear me first. I did not realise until just now, when you read—that—that Bert was anything more to me than a friend. How can I explain to you what I can see so plainly now, that my love for Philip was mostly'.-pity and compassion. I thought it was love, and we were so happy together, or would have been if he had not been so ill. But it was so different from the feeling that almost bewilders me about Bert, and that I know now is something infinitely greater than the other. If I could only go and comfort his poor mother!" "I don't see how you can," said Alan shortly. " Trust a fellow's mother to know why it is he goes away and takes his chance like the others of being killed. Bert wasn't the one to go for the glory or honour of the thing. Girls are funny creatures. If I loved a girl and wondered if she liked me in return, would she show and prove her affection for me by marrying another man?"

"I didn't know then that I cared—like that—for Bert, and—Dad made me all the more determined about Philip by being unjust to him and trying to force me to send him away. That never answers with a girl. But you don't understand, Alan, and nothing can bring Bert back again; so it's useless talking. I cannot forget, however, that I am held responsible for Bert' death."

Her voice was tremulous, and Alan suddenly realised what a brute he had been, although he was still as far off as ever from understanding women. "Forgive me, Gwen," he said. " I'v been a cad; but I spoke without thinking of your side of it. I only felt that Bert was—such a chum of mine, and we've been so ever since we were little chaps. There's 210 one I wanted so much to see happy as Bert." "It's all right, Allie," she said, and put her arms round his neck for a moment. ''l know; and we'd both do a lot to give him happiness now when it is too late. At least it is too late for me, but you have done all you could." A day of sunshine and unalloyed happiness for Hughie, to whom the country was marvellous, and the lambs, with their wistful, wondering faces, were perfectly wonderful little creatures, so different, from the little woolly lamb in the kitchen at home in town, which only moved when you pushed it. and only " baa-ed " when you pinched it in a certain place. But to Gwen till the dear memories which this first day in her old home brought vividly to her mind were fraught with one characteristic. Their house had always been a second home to Bert, and as she moved about all day she could mentally see him as in those other days. As the hours wore away, the pain at her heart did not grow lighter. From whence had come this sudden and all-absorbing feeling for Bert, that thrilled her and made her yearn for his presence, now, alas, impossible? Could it be that after all her experience of wifehood and motherhood she had yet mis.sod woman's chief joy and had not known the wondrous crowning of love. Had that love been at the bottom of her heart through all her careless girlhood, unsuspected un-

dor the guise of friendship, waiting to bo called forth, not by the vizard wand of Cupid, but by the harsh mandate of grim Despair ? Alan had been down, to the station for his evening paper. Hughie was safoly in bed, and in his dreams was still running about in the meadows or watching the fluffy chicks. He had fallen asleep wondering how long it would take his calf (Grandpa's gift) to grow into a big cow. "Wi 11 I bo a big boy flr.it P" ho murmured , halt asleep. "Eh, what's that? _ Speak up, Hughie!" half-barked, hair-grumbled Mack from his basket. He was tired, and didn't want disturbing. "Will I—?" began Hughie again, hut forgot to finish it, and mother laughed iks she tucked him up and pushed back the brown curls before she kissed him good-night.

They wore sitting now round the log firo when the sound of a bicyclo bell was heard at the side of the house, and in half a minute Alan was indoors, wiping the perspiration from his brow. " There's _ great excitement down in the township," ho said. " When I went down overybpdv was talking of Bert, and what a. pity it was, until the train and the papers came. There was a rush for further news, and, what do you think? The first thing they all saw was a contradiction of this morning's report. Bert is not among the killed, but is very seriously wounded. To think that he's alive—alive t Why, it's glorious 1 He has been invalided, home, and will start as soon as he's able to travel, I suppose." In his excitement Alan could hardly stop"Here it isl" he cried, and began to read. It was one of the noblest deeds of heroism in the long tale of that ciuel war, and New Zealanders were evidently proud, very proud, of the comrade whom they had sent out in their name.

" Thank God for his poor mother 1" saio Mrs Grey, once more tying her bonnet strings, her dark eyes filled with thankful tears, for she loved Bert almost as her own boy. And through the window of the field hospital ou the wide veldt the African stars were shining with the same kindly light as when he was safe in his island home, on a man who in his pain and weakness was asking why he had been brought back to life and had not been allowed to die. Ho did not know £he earnest heart-wrung prayer that liad ascended beyond the stars from the girl whoso love, had ho known that he possessed 1 it, would have been to him joy and life.

Three weeks later, as he went on board the Ulysses a-t Cape Town, en route for New Zealand, three cable messages were handed to Mm. One was from his and associates in Woodfield; another, a sweet and loving message from his mother; the third was as follows: "So glad you are better. Longing to you home again.—E. and F. Grey, Alan, Gwen ana Hughie." Now, who was Hughie? Was Gwen home again? What things had happened since he left?

Eut neither Table Mountain, with its soft, snowy covering of fleecy cloud, ncr the fair city they were leaving behind, nor the winds from the wide, grassy veldts whose soil was stained with the blood of so many heroes, nor yet the blue, heaving waters that washed the circle of the world, nor the white-crested waves that met them so proudly, nor the sea-birds that hovered round the ship like attendant Ariels to bring her good fortune on her journey, could answer his questions. He must wait.

Bert had been home a week, and the excitement in quiet little Woodfield was beginning to die down, for people were realising slowly that the kindest thing to do for him at present was to leave him alone until he was strong again. r i :e Mayor and Corporation/ as well as his private friend's and old comrades of the cricket and hockey clubs, were at the station to meet him, and the body politic, in the persons of the former, expressed its gratitude pride that one of their own townsmen had acquitted himself so nobly and had rendered such di»tinguished service for his country and Empire. Bert, who did not know what had been printed' in the newspapers, and to whom all this was therefore very unexpected, wondered, "Why this fuss?" " Gentlemen," he said, '' I thank you for all the kind things you have said, and for your warm welcome home again, which Ijrippreciate very much. But I have doiie no more than the other fellows who were with me, and exactly what every other man in the British Army did who was not a coward, and, indeed, what you yourselves would have done had you and they been m my place. I could do no other, except, indeed, that I might have done still more than I did." Three cheers were called for by the Mayor and given lustily by the school children, who were glad to have their turn at last, and to express their opinion in their own way. " And now, lads," said Bert, "let us have three more for the fellows who are still fighting at the front, and for their wives and mothers and sisters at heme. Then when you get home I want you to remember for a few minutes in silence the wives and mothers of those grand men who will never come back again, and who have given their lives on the South African battlefields for the dear Mother Country and for our glorious Empire."

As quickly and as quietly as he could, Bert got away, saying only that he was not yet very strong, and wished to get home. Since then a week had passed, and only once had Gwen been to see him, taking with her Hughie and her mother. She wished fervently that Alan had not surprised that confession from her on that dreadful morning when they had thought Bert was dead. Alan had been spending all his spare time with his friend, aud the two chums were now more to each other than ever. But Gwen felt that she could not go, knowing what Bert was to her now, which she must never betrav. Sometimes when she went to bed at night she put out the light and sat down by the open window, breathing the delicious scent of the wattle, now one exquisite and fragrant golden glory, and looked across the fields flooded with moonlight to where gleamed the white farmhouse where Bert lived. They wore all coming, over on Sunday. How like old times it would be ! And Hughie and Bert were already such great friends. "Oh. Bert, Bert!" she murmured. " how 1 must have made you suffer through my girlish waywardness and self-will. If only, now that lam a woman and know a. woman's Greatness of love and—motherhood. T could bring you ioy—ioy which would b-e so great and deep that you would forget the sorrow." When she occasionally met Alan's meditative eye across the table, she knew instinctively what lie was thinking of, and the flush would spread over her cheeks and brow until it reached the soft brown hnir. while she was assiduously tyinp Hughie's feeder more securely round his neck. Bert must have known she was a widow before he went to the war: but she guessed what his thought was—that if her love for Philip had been anything like his own for her, she could | never think of marrying again if she j had once known perfect love. He did not know —how could he? !

Even a week at home had made a wonderful difference to Bert, and he was able to walk about almost anywhere.

"Halloa, you dear old second mother," he said, as he came to Mrs Grey. "This is like old times. I must go and see if everything in the house is just as it used to be. I know just where the knives and things ought to be for setting the table. Here they are; and Oh, bravo! Hughie, it's pikelets for tea."

"Why, my boy, this is good. You look far more your old happy self than you havo since you came home. "What has happened?" " Nothing, only tlie sun's shining,'' snid Bert. lie did look happy, and tlicio wis a cm'biiu confident luok ia

his eyes that was a stranger there • week ago. " Gwen," he said. " how I should lijjcc a game of tennis, just as we used to. Will you come and have a game to-mor-row P If you like we'll go over and havo a look at the court this afternoon, and Hughie will come, too, and Mack, won't you, old chap?" Alan was feeling in his pockets. "Gwen, here's a letter Fairbnriji gave me at the post office for you. B» gave it to me laso night, tat 2 forgot it: It's marked ' Urgent,' too. Sorry, sis' ter mine." -■ -J Gwen looked at it. It was, st?mipe<3 " Browne and Browne, Solicitors." What did they want now < , ■; "To Mrs Conyers. Dear Wo, acting on behalf of Sir Arthur Cony era. would be very pleased to receive a reply to our last communicaiioii respecting the future of your child an< Sir Arthur's liberal offer. We woula urge that, if possible, a reply may hfl sent by return of post, by which- yoi< would very much oblige.—Youra faith* fully." "Alan will say, 'Just like I woman,' " said Gwen. " This is in rej gard to a question that I'd just decidet about when you came to me ihat nigh' from mother, and—l forgot to sen< them my answer. They wanted me ta part with Hughie, for always," slid said, very low, " and 1 couldn t. Mjfl allowance, however, will cease aifcejf this year when I decline. Hie point J considered most was that they coul<3 give him a better education and many, more advantages than I could." "Part with Hughie!" said Bert.• a I should think not! And how db they know, indeed, that you can't give hins a good education P Bo they think we are all ignorant savages? Stuff fend nonsense; as if a stem old grand fatherail antiquity of an aunt, and a host >o; footmen and butlers, could take a -mo* ther's place." <• _ "I'm glad you think as I do about it," said Gwen. " Mother thought so' too, but it really didn't enter ifiy head that I hadn't answered the letter at' all*The decision itself seemed the ittostj momentous thing to me. I mu6t-an-swer it at once, and I'll post it brother Alan, as we go to the Court th-ii afternoon." "M.vThe Wood field recreation grounds were quite deserted that afternoon". Mrs Grey declared herself too tired to go, Alan wanted to write a letter. Mr, Grey would like a nap before BertV father and mother came later,on. So. Gwen, Bert, Hughie and Mack wen® down. What a lovable little- fellow Hughie looked in his brown velvet suit,that so perfectly matched his flowing brown eyes. • i They walked round and inspected'thdf court, finding it in perfect order* Gwen herself liad not been there since' her arrival home, and the sight of thw dear familiar place and trees set her blood dancing for a game, and riiadei her long for to-morrow. "Shall we sit down a bit?" said Bert, and they chose one of the long seats in the sunshine. i- " Do you know why I have brought' you here to-day P" asked Bert, Ana a little bird in the trees overhead"' sud»* denly broke forth into joyous song. " i was glad the others couldn't come, an< Alan knew, and therefore No, lie dian't tell me much,. only enough to put hope into my'heart, ana* the feeling that to have dear Gwen a* my wife was possible yet. Oh, Gwen, can you let me be a father to "ETughie/ and—your husband? I have loved yon] ever since I knew you, and for vears it was my dream to have my ovhf home, with Gwen as it's queen. Artij I thought you knew, too, what Ihojaecf, for, and so Ilived in sweet without telling yon, and then . '■ "I know, Bert." Her eyes'werA filled with tears. "Don't tell me; "bull just let me tell you what I knew otf the morning when—when we thoughtf you were not coming baok again." She told him of everything—her, ownf wilfulness at the time of her early marj riage; the affection between herself anq Philip, the long struggle with death.}' Hughie, and then lastly that suddenj revelation of the great, divine lore of her womanhood, which must have ; been", there all the time, but disguised'. ■< " Perhaps had you spoken, .in thosflf other days, I should not have known, then how much I reajlv loved -yon—anil! —Dad made me so determined?••• ALifaf has taught me a lot eince then, an<ir~»; so has Hughie. There's nothing, aoJh* mg between our love now, Bert, God; and all, all that I yearned fot' when you were out there in hospitalsuffering, and I at last understood, everything, has come to pass. You will. 1 forget the suffering, dear, in the 1 jot,-' that has come to us, both, won't your And—you will forgive me for my mis* take and waywardness, Bert?" He drew her yet nearer. How ex-/' quisite was the mingled sunlight and love in those brown eyes in which.-, thatears were trembling; and how-* it thrilled him to think that Gderr at) last—in all-her sweetness and woman-* liness—was his. And there, where: the 1 : loving sunshine bathed them in- its, warm benediction, he kissed the svreetr lips and brow of the girl who liad coma;: at last through suffering to perfect' love. . ' ' -i