Mrs. Comber was sitting at the table, with her mouth wide open, like a fish, counting on the cloth with her fingers in order to remember the things that she ought to do. “Dear?” said Isabel. “Yes,” said Mrs. Comber, smiling. “I want you to do something for me.” “Anything in the world, dear, you know. Five, Mrs. Johnson's hill for that ironing; six, Freddie's socks; seven, the suit—” “No, dear, please—just for a minute I want you to listen altogether to me.” “Yes, dear.” Mrs. Comber stopped her counting. “Well, it's this. Mr. Perrin is coming back. I saw him this morning—” “You saw him this morning! Isabel!” “Yes. We both went out to see the sun rise—to the Golden View. He talked to me. Dear, I never understood things before—things or people. There must be so many people like that who are so splendid inside and so dull outside.” “I don't want to be unkind, dear,” Mrs. Comber answered slowly, “but I cannot believe that Mr. Perrin is splendid inside—I can't really.” “Oh, but he is, he is! He's coming back like a hero. Why, when I think of Archie and myself and our lives—and all the other people with lives like them—and then when I think of all the awkward, bad-mannered, stiff, jolty people who are heroes every day they live, I'm ashamed!” Mrs. Comber was astonished. “Well, my dear,” she said, “it does seem to have affected you—really. Of course I want to be kind to everybody—even Mrs. Dormer—and of course I 'll believe what you say, and I'm sure I'm very sorry for him, and it won't be pleasant for him coming back.” “No,” said Isabel. “It won't—no one ought ever to come back here again—but if only you 'll be a friend to him— “You see,” she went on again, “he's the kind of man whom those things matter to so frightfully. And no one's ever taken any interest in him or any trouble—and now if you and I—” “Anything,” said Mrs. Comber, “that you want me to do.” “I sometimes think,” said Isabel, “that the world's topsy-turvy. People seem to put so much value on all the outside things, and if someone's ugly and awkward—” Her gaze through the window was arrested by the sight of a cab at the door of the Lower School. The porter came out with a brown portmanteau—a very old brown portmanteau—and he put it on the cab. It was a very old cab, and a very old horse and a very old driver. Mr. Perrin, wearing a bowler that was too small for him and in his old shabby overcoat, got into the cab. The bag bounced about on the roof as the old horse stumbled away. Would he come back and fight it out? She knew, with certain faith, that he would. Would he win through? She did not know, but in the sun and glorious beauty of that day she seemed to get her answer. Meanwhile the old cab rumbled down the Brown Hill. “It shall be all right, next term,” said Mr. Perrin. THE END