"Well?" said Sir Beverley. "You took that chattering monkey back, I suppose?" Piers started and seemed to awake. "Oh yes, I got her safely home. We had to dodge the Reverend Stephen. But it was all right. She and the boy got in without being caught." He stirred his coffee thoughtfully, and fell silent again. "You'd better go to bed," said Sir Beverley abruptly. Piers looked up, meeting the hard grey eyes with the memory of his dream still lingering in his own. Slowly the dream melted. He began to smile. "I think I'd better," he said. "I'm infernally sleepy, and it's getting late." He drank off his coffee and rose. "You must be pretty tired yourself, sir," he remarked. "Time you trotted to bed too." He moved round to the back of the settle and paused, looking down at the thick white hair with a curious expression of hesitancy in his eyes. "Oh, go on! Go on!" said Sir Beverley irritably. "What are you waiting for?" Piers stooped impulsively in response, his hand on the old man's shoulder, and kissed him on the forehead. "Good-night, sir!" he said softly. The action was purely boyish. It pleaded for tolerance. Sir Beverley jerked his head impatiently, but he did not repulse him. "There! Be off with you!" he said. "Go to bed and behave yourself! Good-night, you scamp! Good-night!" And Piers went from him lightfooted, a smile upon his lips. He knew that his tacit overture for peace had been accepted for the time at least. CHAPTER XIII THE VISION It was growing very dark in the little church, almost too dark to see the carving of the choir-stalls, and Avery gave a short sigh of weariness. She had so nearly finished her task that she had sent the children in to prepare for tea, declaring that she would follow them in five minutes, and then just at the last a whole mass of ivy and holly, upon which the boys had been at work, had slipped and strewn the chancel-floor. She was the only one left in the church, and it behooved her to remove the litter. It had been a hard day, and she was frankly tired of the very sight and smell of the evergreens. There was no help for it, however. The chancel must be made tidy before she could go, and she went to the cupboard under the belfry for the dustpan and brush which the sexton's wife kept there. She found a candle also, and thus armed she returned to the scene of her labours at the other end of the dim little church. She tried to put her customary energy into the task, but it would not rise to the occasion, and after a few strenuous seconds she paused to rest.