But when they got into the motor at Hempstead station for the drive home, silence fell upon her--he had been almost silent from the start of the little journey. As the motor swung into the grounds, looking their most beautiful for his homecoming, an enormous wave of pure delight began to surge up in him, to swell, to rush, to break, dashing its spray of tears into his eyes. He turned his head away to hide the too obvious display of feeling. They went into the house, he carrying the baby. He gave it to the nurse--and he and she were alone. "It certainly is good to be home again," he said. The words were the tamest commonplace. We always speak in the old stereotyped commonplaces when we speak directly from the heart. His tone made her glance quickly at him. "Why, I believe you _are_ glad," said she. He took her hand. They looked at each other. Suddenly she flung herself wildly into his arms and clung to him in an agony of joy and fear. "Oh, I missed you so!" she sobbed. "I missed you so!" "It was frightful," said he. "It shall never happen again." End of Project Gutenberg's The Grain Of Dust, by David Graham Phillips