One afternoon Mr. Merridew came home in a state of suppressed excitement which was none the less manifest to Nan's first glance. It was late in April, and he found her on the lawn behind the house. Cuckoos were calling in the narrow avenue, now faintly dusted with palest gold; lesser trees had reached the stage of emeralds, and a horse-chestnut on the lawn was parading a thousand pairs of light-green gloves. The radiant afternoon sky changed into that of a serene evening as father and daughter stood face to face. "Who do you think arrived in London this morning? Ralph Devenish!" he said, speaking the name in haste as her colour went. "Indeed!" she remarked, and bit her lip to hide the hope that she had cherished for one instant. "Poor fellow," continued Mr. Merridew, with his facile sympathy for the luckless, "he is terribly upset! The last English news he had on sailing was not later than last October; of course they touched nowhere, so he had no idea there was war with Russia until this morning. It is his battalion of the Grenadiers that went to the Black Sea with the rest of the Guards two months ago; and here he has been cooling his heels in perfect innocence at sea! Of course he reported himself without a minute's delay to the authorities, and now awaits their pleasure in a perfect fever of disappointment and professional ardour. He says he has been in the service all these years without hearing an angry shot, and now after all he may miss the fun! A gallant soldier, Nan, whatever else he may be!" "I should hope so," the girl said, simply and without scorn. Her mind had not crossed the seas with Ralph. "Did he really go to the diggings?" she asked in a constrained voice. "Yes, and did very fairly there; what is more, my dear, he saw something of Denis Dent." The girl was galvanized. "Was he well?" she whispered in a breath. "Perfectly, when Ralph left, which was only in January." Nan filled her lungs, and for the moment her soul sang praises; but for a moment only. If he was well, why had he never written? Her indignation had free play for the first time in all these months; she could better have borne to hear he had been ill, if only he were well again; for then she could have understood, then there would have been nothing to forgive. "He was not only well," continued Mr. Merridew, with outward reluctance, not altogether an affectation, "but he was doing uncommonly well--far better than poor Ralph!" Doing uncommonly well! And yet he could not write. "And where is Ralph?" asked Nan, in a hard voice, and with that old hard light in her hazel eyes. Mr. Merridew stood covered with a guilty confusion. "Nan, would you see him if he came to see you?" "Of course I would. Why not? I should like to see Ralph particularly."