“When I come back? Well--” he broke off lamely. And they looked at each other without speaking until they became aware of a human presence. They turned and saw John, his huge bulk in the frame of the doorway, watching them dully beneath his heavy brows. AT the Channel House Stella's health began to mend. The black shadows disappeared from beneath her eyes, and her lips caught the lost trick of a smile. She no longer wandered desolate about house and garden, but sought the companionship of those about her. The old folks discussed and wrangled over the change. “One would have thought,” said Lady Blount, “that this terrible affair would have crushed her altogether.” “Any one who did n't know her might have thought so,” replied Sir Oliver; “but I 've watched her. I sized her up long ago. It 's astonishing how little you know of her, Julia. She has lots of pluck--the right stuff in her. And now John 's free and he 's down here. What more can she want?” “Poor fellow! He does n't seem to be much the happier for it.” “You don't expect him to go about grinning as if nothing had happened, do you?” said Sir Oliver. “Can't you understand that the man has had a devil of a shock? He 'll get over it one of these days.” “I don't want him to grin; but I'd like him to look a little more cheerful,” said Lady Blount. But cheerfulness and John Risca were strangers. Even when he and Stellamaris were alone together, looking at the moonlit sea from the terrace outside the drawing-room windows, or in the sunshine of the sweet cliff garden, the cloud did not lift from his brow. Unless they talked of Unity,--and it relieved his heart to do so, and Stellamaris loved to listen to the brave little chronicles of her life,--long silences marked their intercourse. To get back to the old plane was impossible. They could find no new one on which to meet. She gave him all her pity, for he was a man who had suffered greatly, and in a way it was she herself who had brought the suffering on him. Her heart ached to say or do something that would rekindle the old light in his rugged face; but an unconquerable shyness held her back. If he had thrown his great arm around her and held her tight and uttered broken words of love, pity would have flamed passionate in surrender. If he had pleaded for comfort, pity would have melted warm over his soul. But he made no appeal. Both were burningly aware that Unity had died so that they could be free, no barrier between them. Yet barrier there seemed to be, invisible, inscrutable. Once Sir Oliver, who had joined them in the garden, asked: “What are your plans for the future, my boy?” “Plans? I have none. Just the same old round of work.” “I mean your domestic arrangements.” “I 'll go on living with my old aunt. We 're a queer couple, I suppose, but we understand each other.” “Humph!” grunted Sir Oliver, and he went away to tie up a drooping rose.