The man was smiling. Davy returned and sat down wonderingly between them. His mother kept her mouth covered, but her eyes were wells of joy. “I don’t know whether it’s that cider that needs keeping so cold,” she began steadily, “or this which Mr. Bellair has been saying, but the truth is, Davy, I haven’t been so happy since a girl----” “A little lunch will fix that,” Bellair suggested absently. “If it will,” she returned, “tell the man that it’s nothing I wish for, this night.” 3 Auckland passengers were not to be landed until the morning, but the _Suwarrow_ sent one boat ashore that night. By some law unknown to the outsider, a few top bags of mail were discriminately favoured, and they were in the boat. The second officer, with a handful of telegrams to be filed; a travelling salesman called home from the States on account of family illness, also Bellair were in the boat. He had told Davy and his mother that he was going to prepare a place for them; that he would be back on the deck of the _Suwarrow_ before nine in the morning. Because the little landing party was out of routine, an hour or more was required for Bellair to obtain release to the streets. It was now midnight. Three months away, and there had been no word from the woman who had remained. In fact, no arrangement for writing had been agreed upon, except in case New York should hold him. He had never seen the writing of the Faraway Woman.... He believed with profound conviction that within an hour’s ride by trolley from the place in the street where he moved so hastily now, there was a bluff, a stone cottage, a woman waiting for him, and a child near her; that all was well with the two and the place. Yet he lived and moved now in a wearing, driving terror. All his large and little moments of the past three months passed before him like dancers on a flash-lit stage, some beautiful, some false and ugly, but each calling his eyes, something of his own upon them. The world had shown him well that man is not ready for joy when he fears, yet Bellair was afraid. Man deserves that which he complains of. Still, he was afraid. He was exultant, too. Cities might change and nations and laws, but not that woman’s heart. He did not believe she could love him, but he knew of her fondness hoped for that again. She was in a safe place--as any place in the world is safe. She was well, with a health he had never known in another, and the child was flesh of her. Yet he feared, his heart too full to speak. He did not deserve her, but he hoped for the miracle, hoped that the driving laws of the human heart might be merciful, hoped for her fondness again.