“Oh, Nigel,” she whispered, “I am afraid.” “You need not be,” he answered and, bending, laid his lips upon her hand. “I have read Nigel Tintagel’s letter.” “And do you remember?” “I remember nothing. But my soul is slowly struggling up into the light. After long years in outer darkness, at last I am finding the way home to God.” Again he laid his lips upon her hands; but they were cold as death, and her heart trembled. “Tell me the rest,” he said. She steadied her voice with an effort. “There is not much to tell. It has been a long, long time of seeking and waiting. I kept count of each year. I made little clothes of the right size, and gave them away. In the summers I went from one seaside place to another and roamed about the shore, seeking among the little boys who shouted and played, rode donkeys, wielded their wooden spades, and made sand castles. I neglected my little daughter because I wanted only the boy who was doubly my own. Then I remembered she was yours, and flew back to make amends. “When the right time came, I went to the public schools, Eton, Harrow, Marlborough, Rugby. I watched the sports; I saw the prize-givings. Crowds of fine British lads were there; but the face I sought was not among them. “Later, I went to Oxford and Cambridge. I saw degrees conferred; I viewed the races. I went to Lord’s; you had been keen on cricket. But you were not there. “At last I knew your education must be over. You must have taken your place in the world—a man among men. Then I gave up my search, and waited here—just waited. Your room was always ready. I felt certain you would come to me at last. “Eight years ago our daughter married. Then I was left alone, and I was glad. Little Nigel was born, and he was _so_ like you. But that was no comfort to me; it was you I wanted, not a likeness. I never doubted that you would find me at last. “And to-night—to-night, after thirty years—I looked up and saw my husband’s eyes gazing in at me through the window. “The very greatness of the moment kept me calm. I had just to make sure you would not go. I could not tell Colin and Eva; they would have thought me mad. But old Thomas knew. He recognised you at once.” “Recognised me?” “Yes, Nigel. He had known and loved and served you from boyhood. He ran beside your pony the first time you rode alone. He and his wife are the only people left among the household who remember you. When I sent him to fetch you in, I told him you had come at last, and warned him to give no sign of recognition until I had found out how much you knew. He has shared with me the long years of vigil.” Luke Sparrow buried his face in his hands. “Good God,” he muttered; “let me keep my reason.” Midnight sounded slowly from a distant belfry. The old clock in the corner whirred its warning, and struck the hour. Lady Tintagel took up her jewel-case. “Come and sit here beside me, and see why Thomas could not fail to know you.”