The man reclining in the chair between them, gazed intently at his own boots. He turned them from side to side, as the flame played upon them, and examined them critically. Then he thrust his hands deep into his breeches’ pockets, stretched his long legs to the fire, and stared at his boots with whole-hearted admiration. For the first time in all the long years, the Lonely Man without, yearned to be within. His loneliness seized and shook him. All his searching, all his watching, all his hungry, forlorn hours, seemed to have reached their culmination. This—this, at last, was Home! Yet he stood outside, as a watcher from another world; he had no part nor lot in the love and comfort within. His yearning gaze was fixed upon the central figure in the scene. Yes, she would always be the central figure in any scene. In court or cottage alike, she would be queen. No wonder his little double dashed forward when she said: “In the dark, children?” If _that_ voice could have called him, when he was a lonely little boy, how gladly he—who never came when he was called—would have shouted “Coming!” and flown to her embrace. He looked at the dark head, so like his own, nestling against the softness of her breast. He could see her bosom rise and fall, in steady, rhythmic breathing, beneath the little olive cheek. Dark lashes veiled the bright brown eyes. Nigel was growing sleepy. What wonder, in such “sweet security.” Nigel’s parents talked together. She sat silent, looking down at the small face against her breast. It struck him that there was an aloofness about her, a loneliness which almost matched his own. Tragedy had laid its mark upon that noble face; a sorrow borne in patient silence; an agony unshared; a grief too deep to be plumbed by human sympathy. It seemed to the Lonely Man that his loneliness would be easier to bear, for having looked upon her; his “Returned Empty” life would hold more possibility of fulness; his “Glass with care” would be less sensitively brittle, for having seen the mastered tragedy in that calm face, crowned by the silvered hair. One final look; then he must turn away and be lost again in the outer darkness. His face was close against the glass. His hungry eyes peered through. At that moment she raised her head, looked straight across to the window, and saw him. He could not move. He could not look away. Her eyes gazed into his; right into his, and held them. She sat perfectly still. The hand stroking little Nigel’s leg, paused. The boy’s lashes lay upon his cheek. He stirred uneasily. The hand stroked again. Her face blanched to ashen whiteness; then the delicate colour flooded it once more. Still her eyes held him. At last her lips moved, silently. They formed one word: “Wait.” Presently she rose. Nigel rubbed his eyes, leapt from the sofa, and found his ball. She moved toward the window. The man without stepped back into the shadow.