The glory of it touched Ruth as with a sudden blaze of light. The thought was like a bugle call. To work with for them still. She had only herself to offer. One small stone to shape for use, to make as perfect as might be. She offered it under the starlit heavens with all her heart. Life took on a new and more beautiful meaning, any work of service a deeper, fuller joy. It was still for, and with, Them. CHAPTER VI It was a few days later that Mr. Fothersley, as was his frequent custom, emerged from his front door at eleven o’clock, on his way to the post. In his left hand he carried a sheaf of letters for the twelve o’clock post out. As he often said, it made “an object for his morning stroll.” Not that Mr. Fothersley ever really strolled. It would have been a physical impossibility. His little plump legs always trotted. They trotted now along the immaculate gravel drive which curved between two wide strips of smooth mown sward. On the right hand the grass merged into a magnificent grove of beech-trees, on the left it was fenced by a neat iron railing, dividing it from what the house agent describes as finely timbered park-land. Behind him, with all its sun-blinds down, the grey old house slept serenely in the sunshine. The parterres were brilliant with calceolaria, geranium, and heliotrope. Mr. Fothersley rather prided himself on an early Victorian taste in gardening, and his herbaceous borders, very lovely though they were, dwelt in the kitchen garden region.