“Much surer than I am that you are you. I saw your light from the street, and I felt I couldn’t possibly wait to go round and ring the bell. I thought I must come and look in and see what you were like, though I must say I didn’t expect—” He was shaking hands with Mrs. Mar now, but he glanced over his shoulder at the tall white figure and past it to Bella. “I believe I’ve succeeded in scaring at least one of the party. How do you do, Bella? Feel me. I’m not a ghost!” “My dear boy,” interrupted Mrs. Mar, speaking in her most matter of fact tone, “sit down and tell us all about it.” She at all events was not too agitated to put her marker in the book before she closed it, and she took up her crochet. Hildegarde was still standing there, but she had taken off the helmet and held it in her hand. “Are you—are you alone?” she asked. “Yes, alone.” “I suppose you’ve heard nothing of Mr. Mar?” said Mrs. Mar, who had never in her life been heard to refer to that gentleman in any more intimate fashion. “Oh, yes, I have.” Cheviot sat down. Hildegarde still stood there. “I was with him between five and six months.” “With father! Has he been to the Klondike, too?” “No; but I’ve been to Golovin.” “Your last letter, nine months ago, said you were coming by the next boat,” Mrs. Mar arraigned him. “Yes, but I hadn’t heard from Hildegarde when I wrote that.” “What difference did that make?” “The difference of my following her suggestion to look out for Mr. Mar. I had to go to Golovin to do it.” “Is that where he is now?” demanded his wife. “Why on earth hasn’t he written?” Cheviot felt in his inner pocket, as he said, “No, Mr. Mar’s at Nome.” “At Nome!” “He—he’s not ill?” faltered Hildegarde. “No, on the contrary, he’s better than he’s been for years.” “Then what on earth’s he doing at Nome?” demanded Mrs. Mar. “Why didn’t he go to the place he’s been talking about for all these—” “He did.” “Well?” and then, with her peculiar incisiveness, “What’s he got to show for it all?” Cheviot did not wonder that Mar would rather not return to face that particular look in the polished onyx eyes. “I don’t know,”—he hesitated—“that there’s very much to show—as yet.” “It oughtn’t to surprise anybody.” The lady turned the highly polished stones in her head with an added glitter. “When is he coming home?” asked Hildegarde, with a pitiful lip. “Perhaps next summer.” “Perhaps!” echoed the girl. Even Mrs. Mar stopped crocheting a moment. “Hush, Hildegarde. Let him tell us.” But she must not be supposed to be over-anxious. “Have you just come? Have you had anything to eat?” “Oh, thank you—in the train. First of all, I must give you the letters he’s sent.” He handed one to Mrs. Mar, and one to Hildegarde. Another he laid on the table under the lamp. It was addressed to Messrs. Trennor and Harry Mar. Mother and daughter hurriedly read and exchanged letters.