“I know, my dear. Sooner himself than all the money in the world,” and she stroked the shaking head tenderly. “But God saw differently, and He knows best. We will treasure our memories together, you and I.... Oh, my boy! my boy!” and the white head bowed upon the brown, and the great burden of their sorrow was easier for the sharing. XXXIV It was on a bleak afternoon in the middle of January that the quiet little circle at The Red House was surprised by the sudden irruption of Alma in a state of intensest excitement. She had come down at once when their sorrowful news about the boys reached her, but that had had to be a short visit as they were terribly busy at St Barnabas’s and shorter-handed than ever. “He’s coming home. He’s in England,” and she showed them a telegram she had received an hour before, which said-- “Just landed. Will go straight to Willstead. Hope find you all well. CON.” “It’s from Folkestone and he may be here any time,” she cried, radiant with hopeful excitement. “Isn’t it delightful to see his own name again, even at the end of a telegram. The dear boy! He must be better or he couldn’t have come. I wonder how he got released. Anyway it’s splendid to have him back,” and she looked at her watch every second minute to make the time go quicker. “I wonder which house he will try first?” said Mrs Dare. “We’ll soon settle that,” said Alma. “A sheet of paper, Lo, and a couple of drawing-pins!”--and she hauled out her fountain-pen and printed in big letters--“THIS WAY, CON!” and ran out in the rain and fixed it on The Red House gate-post, and opened the gate wide. “He’s bound to see that, coming from the station,” she panted. “I’d go there and wait for him, but it’s such a bitterly cold place and I’d hate for his first sight of me to be chiefly red nose and watery eyes. That wouldn’t make for a cheerful welcome to the returned exile.” “He would sooner find you here, my dear. The Dares are never very effusive in public, and it has been a very trying time for you both,” said Mrs Dare quietly. Never did minutes drag so slowly. They could none of them settle down even to soothing knitting, except Auntie Mitt, who went quietly on with a body-belt which was child’s play that she could have done in her sleep. “The trains are very much out of order, you know, with the passage of troops,” said Mrs Dare, as Alma prowled restlessly about but turned up at the window at least once each minute. “If he had wired from Boulogne I’d have been afraid of submarines or mines. But surely nothing could go wrong just between Folkestone and here! That would be too cruel.” “He’ll be all right, Al,” said Lois. “There’s hardly been time for him to get here yet since he sent off the telegram. I wish Ray was coming too, but he says there is no chance of leave again for a good while yet.” “His news is good?”