’Except the Kingdom of Heaven,’ said my brother, with one of his gentle looks. And then the S.P. came in with a note for Mr Williams. It was from his bank, apparently. ’There must be some mistake,’ he said aloud. ’Some one has paid in £207 to my account. Oh, Mrs Ellsley,’ looking across at me, ’I can’t possibly accept such a sum, you know. Why, one never could thank you for half the things you have done already.’ ’Mr Williams, I swear it’s nothing to do with me, I haven’t done it,’ and I glanced across at Ross. ’Captain Fotheringham,’ said poor Mr Williams, ’can it possibly be you?’ ’Do you know, sir, what a captain’s pay is?’ asked my brother. ’Why,’ I exclaimed, rushing in where angels would fear to tread, ’good gracious, Ross can’t live on it without an allowance from his godmother.’ (’Since deceased,’ I added underneath my breath, to make it truthful). ’No, I suppose not,’ said Mr Williams (he is so easy to deceive); ’but what _am_ I to think?’ ’Well, I should think it was the most amazing bit of luck, sir,’ drawled my brother, slightly bored. ’And I wish you’d introduce me to your friend.’ So Mr Williams went upstairs in a state of complete bewilderment to tell his little wife, and Ross was really rather nice to me, though I was not allowed to mention the subject of our recent conversation. However, he did say that I was a nice child not to have given the show away, kissed me once and called me ’Jonathan,’ which he only does when he is pleased with one, I mean not actively _dis_pleased. Funny old ’David.’ *CHAPTER XXII* My visitors departed soon after breakfast to-day in a motor-car with the nurse. Mrs Williams is going to the sea for a month to get quite strong so as to be very brave and have the operation. He is really touching, so is she. It seems such a small thing to have done for such a wealth of gratitude, and that absurd £207 will make it possible for her to go to a proper nursing home, instead of the free ward of a London hospital. I was rather glad to see them go, although I have learned to like them very much. But for six days I have had no letter from Michael, and yesterday the mail brought me one from father which upset me horribly. He wrote:— ’DARLING—I want to tell you something I have never told any one before. I can hardly write of it even after all these years—But I once saw a vision of my Lord. ’That summer, Meg, after you were married, Ross and I were so wretched without you, that we went down to that little house-boat of Uncle Jasper’s on the Helford River. ’One lovely evening, after a wet day, I was in the dinghy fishing when Ross came out in the duck punt and said,— ’"Father, shall I go back and fetch our supper: It’s too perfect to go in?"