It had been but a few steps to him--the space between the open door and the hearth rug on which he stood--and it had taken her but a few seconds to cross it, but in that brief interval the heavens had opened above her. The old Harry was there--the smile--the flash in the eyes--the joy of seeing her--the quick movement of his hand in gracious salute; then there had followed a sense of his strength, of the calm poise of his body, of the clearness of his skin. She saw, too, how much handsomer he had grown,--and noted the rough sailor's clothes. How well they fitted his robust frame! And the clear, calm eyes and finely cut features--no shrinking from responsibility in that face; no faltering--the old ideal of her early love and the new ideal of her sailor boy--the one Richard's voice had conjured--welded into one personality! “I heard you had just been in to see Uncle George, Kate, and I tried to overtake you.” Not much: nothing in fact. Playwriters tell us that the dramatic situation is the thing, and that the spoken word is as unimportant to the play as the foot-lights--except as a means of illuminating the situation. “Yes--I have just left him, Harry. Uncle George looks very badly--don't you think so? Is there anything very serious the matter? I sent Ben to Dr. Teackle's, but he was not in his office.” He had moved up a chair and sat devouring every vibration of her lips, every glance of her wondrous eyes--all the little movements of her beautiful body--her dress--the way the stray strands of hair had escaped to her shoulders. His Kate!--and yet he dare not touch her! “No, he is not ill. He took a severe cold and only needs rest and a little care. I am glad you went and--” then the pent-up flood broke loose. “Are you glad to see me, Kate?” “I am always glad to see you, Harry--and you look so well. It has been nearly three years, hasn't it?” Her calmness was maddening; she spoke as if she was reciting a part in which she had no personal interest. “I don't know--I haven't counted--not that way. I have lain awake too many nights and suffered too much to count by years. I count by--” She raised her hand in protest: “Don't Harry--please don't. All the suffering has not been yours!” The impersonal tone was gone--there was a note of agony in her voice. His manner softened: “Don't think I blame you, Kate. I love you too much to blame you--you did right. The suffering has only done me good--I am a different man from the one you once knew. I see life with a wider vision. I know what it is to be hungry; I know, too, what it is to earn the bread that has kept me alive. I came home to look after Uncle George. When I go back I want to take him with me. I won't count the years nor all the suffering I have gone through if I can pay him back what I owe him. He stood by me when everybody else deserted me.” She winced a little at the thrust, as if he had touched some sore spot, sending a shiver of pain through her frame, but she did not defend herself.