"I remember now," he exclaimed suddenly and aloud--"I remember! She wrote to me when I was in the midst of a press of work! Her letter was filed for reference--my Joan's letter filed for reference!" His bell pealed through the house, and when Richard appeared, he found his master partially raised in bed, excited and breathless. "Send to the office at once," he said; "tell them to send me up the files of the year ---- immediately! And who brought this letter?" "A lady called with it, sir. She said she would return for the answer in about an hour." "Did she leave her name?" "Yes, sir--Miss Joan Bentley, she wished me to say." "When she comes back, bring her up to me"--and the old man sank exhausted on his pillows, his eyes closed, but a faint smile upon his lips. It was less than an hour later when a little tap on the door aroused him. "Come in," he said, not opening his eyes, till he heard the soft rustle of a dress beside his bed. Then he looked up, but it was the woman who spoke first. "Why, John," she said brokenly--"why, John!" And all at once the shyness that had assailed her as she climbed the stairs slipped from her; the gulf of years that had seemed impassable became as nothing, and she dropped on her knees by the bed, looking into the tired old face upon the pillow, with wistful yearning eyes. He put out his hand almost timidly, and laid it upon hers. "How sweet the limes smelt, dear," he whispered, "and the bees hummed all the time among the flowers." She thought for a moment that he was wandering, but he went on quietly. "It was your letter that brought it all back. You have been faithful--all these years--and I--was a fool!" Her clasp on his hand tightened. "Did you forget," she asked--"did you forget? Was there someone else?" The smile flickered out again upon his face. "No, no, my dear, there was no someone else. There was nothing but my work--it wrapped me round, it has made me a successful man--and it--has spoilt my life! They call me Dryasdust, you know," his weak voice went on. "Somebody told me once that I had no heart." "Ah, but it wasn't true," she said. "Wasn't it? I don't know; I was a fool, and blind--I--but now it is too late, my Joan." The little caressing words came strangely from the thin lips, but the hard, old face had softened in some unaccountable fashion. "Is it ever too late for love?" she asked, and her hand touched gently the thin grey hair upon his temples. "I have wasted my life, and yours," he answered drearily. "We might have been together all these years--all the long, long years--with our children round us--and now--it is nearly over. I am old, and dying, and you----" "I am old too, my dear; perhaps it will not be long before--before----" her voice faltered and broke. "Are you old?" he said; "your eyes are just what I remember, and your voice--it seems to me you are just the same as when I said good-bye to you under the lime-trees."