I went home to think over the matter and to decide what my first move should be. I was going round a crescent which lay in my road home, when I was startled by seeing two figures cross the farther end, and, as they passed under the light of a lamp, I could have sworn that one was my Winny; the other was a man I could not recognise. I laughed at the fancy, however, as it was impossible that my girl should be there; and I had turned down a street which led to my place, when, by a sudden change of mind, I turned sharply round and went in the direction where I had seen these persons. But just there the crescent joined a large and busy thoroughfare, in which it was easy to lose any one; at anyrate, I could see nothing of them, although I walked first on one side and then the other for several minutes. Once I thought I saw a couple resembling them enter a shop, and I hurried up, only to find, when close to them, that these were not in the least like the persons I thought I had seen. This incident disturbed me more than I could account for, and do what I would, I could not help thinking of it all the way home; and as I put my key in the door, my heart fluttered in such a way as it had never done with more serious business. It was an immense relief to me to find Winny there and my tea waiting for me as usual. ‘What has been troubling you, father?’ she said, as I took off my hat and coat. ‘You look harassed.’ ‘Well, I am a little harassed, Winny. I don’t like being taken from home again.’ I had determined to say nothing about the crescent incident, of which I began to feel a trifle ashamed. I made up my mind to have a nice enjoyable Christmas, for the business of Thurles & Company was not of the kind to demand my running about without rest, and, in honest truth, I did not see how I was to begin anywhere, so a day’s consideration would not hurt it. We had a quiet day enough. My wife’s brother and his wife came to tea and supper; as also did Dick Berry, an old comrade—pensioned off like myself—and his wife. We had a cosy evening; but Winny and I had our dinner alone. When it was over and I got my pipe, I could not help thinking of very different times—when my poor wife was alive—always so cheerful!—when the two boys, who died with the scarlet fever, were still with us, and when Tom, my other boy, had not gone to Australia. While I was thinking like this, I caught Winny’s eye fixed on my own, and I supposed something of the same train of fancy was in her mind, for she rose from her chair, threw her arms round my neck, and—to my alarm, as well as my surprise, for she was not a girl to give way—burst out sobbing. I was upset for the moment; but rallying, I said: ‘Come, Winny, my dear! We must keep up a better heart than this. I know you are thinking of the past; but I would rather you, with all your life before you, thought of the future.’