There was a handkerchief bound round his head, and when he turned round I saw that he would have looked very ill if it had not been for the radiant happiness that shone from his pale face. His mother, sitting close by, put out her hand every now and then, and touched his red coat to make sure it was really him. Even old Moore had roused up. And in the back-ground little Davy stood on the dresser with one arm round Elfrida's neck, a bunch of holly in his hand, and a scarlet handkerchief, in imitation of his father, twisted in his curly hair. David Moore did not look like the bearer of evil tidings. The question I came to ask seemed sadly out of place among these happy people. But there was a pause after they had greeted me, and then I had to ask it. 'You were with Cuthbert Franklyn in India?' 'Yes, I was.' He stopped a moment and then said more slowly, 'I suppose you know he's dead.' It was true, then--quite true. I stood silent. Little Davy laughed merrily, and Elfrida stopped him with a grave 'hush.' Presently Moore said-- 'We lost ever so many fellows in our regiment, and I never looked to come home myself.' His wife put her hand softly on to his head as he sat at her feet, and he looked up smiling, and forgot everything else. 'Where was it Cuthbert Franklyn died?' I asked at last. 'Killed at the battle of Conjeveram, fighting against Tippoo Saib, same day as I got this wound in the head.' 'You are sure? Did you see him after he was killed?' 'No, I got my wound early in the day. I was left for dead. They never thought I should have lived. I was a long time in hospital. When I saw some of our fellows again, after I was invalided home, they told me that Franklyn was among the missing.' He could tell me no more than this. And I stood there, thinking sorrowfully over it. I felt that I brought a dreary silence over that happy party. David Moore and his wife spoke to each other in low voices. The old father fell asleep, and Elfrida carried little Davy out of the room. I turned to go away; Moore followed me to the door, wished he had brought me better news, and said he would have come over to see his cousin Martha Clifford, but that his furlough was so short. Only three days to be with wife and child after this long time! So we shook hands, and he went back to his bright fireside. It was too late to go home that night. The short winter's day was over before I left the ferry, and it was afternoon again, a dark, cold, Sunday afternoon, before I got to Wyncliffe next day. The church-bells were still ringing for evening service when I came into the village. Hildred was to meet me at church, for the Vicar never liked the musicians to be away if they could help it, and I played the fiddle up in the gallery every Sunday. Nearly everybody had gone in when I reached the steps leading up to the churchyard. Only Hildred was standing under the lych gate, and watching for me in the failing light.