"It is a home of peace," Jack said. Old, old memories were coming to life every moment. The sound of rooks cawing in the elms, the velvet lawn, the flowers in the trim parterre, the very feel of the air and hue of the sunshine, brought back those old days when his little feet had trotted over just such velvet turf, his little hand clinging to his mother's gown. Ah, if _she_ were here! And his father--the father who had been also his hero, brother, comrade, friend. Then a sweet thought brought sudden tears to his eyes. Surely the angels would see to it that Shushan found them out! His heart, bruised and sore with longings for what might have been, grew still. His Lily had a fairer home than this-- "Over the river, where the fields are green." The cousins went back to the house. Lucy poured out tea for them, and asked Jack, lightly and prettily, many questions about the strange places he had been in, and the strange things he must have seen. He answered evasively, with a reserve of manner which she thought very odd, until she hit upon the explanation that this new cousin--who was so young and looked so old--had been so long amongst wild, barbarous people, that on his return to civilization he was actually feeling--_shy_. She was not sorry when Fred took him off to his "den," as he called his very comfortable and commodious study. But she said, with a pretty monitorial air, and a careful eye to the sermon for to-morrow--"Remember, Fred, this is Saturday night." Then the real talk began. Jack, in writing from Aleppo, had simply told of his father's death, and added that he himself had endured _and seen_ much suffering, and that he was coming home to tell the rest. Now he poured forth the whole story into willing and sympathizing ears. Lucy went up to bed that night wondering if Fred and the new cousin would ever stop talking, and full of anxious thoughts about the neglected sermon. As long as she stayed awake she heard their voices in the room underneath her own; and at last she dropped asleep, with the sermon still upon her mind. Waking in the early summer morning, she heard steps in the passage outside her door, and words spoken that seemed to echo her thoughts. "But your sermon?" "I have got it. Good night--or rather, good morning." Chapter XXVI A SERMON "Thy Father hears the mighty cry of anguish, And gives His answering messages to thee." --_C. Pennefather._