MAJOR. 'Same here. I go your way, Rogers, but you will find me a silent companion. One doesn't want to talk ordinary things to-night. Rather not. Thanks, awfully.' ROGERS. 'Good-night, Don. It's a pity, you know; a bit hard on your wife.' MR. DON. 'Good-night, Rogers. Good-night, Major.' The husband and wife, left together, have not much to say to each other. He is depressed because he has spoilt things for her. She is not angry. She knows that he can't help being as he is, and that there are fine spaces in her mind where his thoughts can never walk with her. But she would forgive him seventy times seven because he is her husband. She is standing looking at a case of fishing-rods against the wall. There is a Jock Scott still sticking in one of them. Mr. Don says, as if somehow they were evidence against him: 'Dick's fishing-rods.' She says forgivingly, 'I hope you don't mind my keeping them in the studio, Robert. They are sacred things to _me_.' 'That's all right, Grace.' 'I think I shall go to Laura now.' 'Yes,' in his inexpressive way. 'Poor child!' 'I'm afraid I hurt her.' 'Dick wouldn't have liked it--but Dick's gone.' She looks a little wonderingly at him. After all these years, she can sometimes wonder a little still. 'I suppose you will resume your evening paper!' He answers quietly, but with the noble doggedness which is the reason why we write this chapter in his life. 'Why not, Grace?' She considers, for she is so sure that she must know the answer better than he. 'I suppose it is just that a son is so much more to a mother than to a father.' 'I daresay.' A little gust of passion shakes her. 'How you can read about the war nowadays!' He says firmly to her--he has had to say it a good many times to himself, 'I'm not going to give in.' But he adds, 'I am so sorry I was in the way, Grace. I wasn't scouting you, or anything of that sort. It's just that I can't believe in it.' 'Ah, Robert, you would believe if Dick had been to you what he was to me.' 'I don't know.' 'In a sense you may be glad that you don't miss him in the way I do.' 'Yes, perhaps.' 'Good-night, Robert.' 'Good-night, dear.' He is alone now. He stands fingering the fishing-rods tenderly, then wanders back into the ingle-nook. In the room we could scarcely see him, for it has gone slowly dark there, a grey darkness, as if the lamp, though still burning, was becoming unable to shed light. Through the greyness we see him very well beyond it in the glow of the fire. He sits on the settle and tries to read his paper. He breaks down. He is a pitiful lonely man. In the silence something happens. A well-remembered voice says, 'Father.' Mr. Don looks into the greyness from which this voice comes, and he sees his son. We see no one, but we are to understand that, to Mr. Don, Dick is standing there in his habit as he lived. He goes to his boy. 'Dick!' 'I have come to sit with you for a bit, father.' It is the gay, young, careless voice.