He was shown into the library, and the tall form standing there on the hearthrug had not the outline for which he had looked. The battle between old age and a stubborn will is long. But old age wins. It never raises the siege. It starves the garrison out. Sir John Meredith's head seemed to have shrunk. The wig did not fit at the back. His clothes, always bearing the suggestion of emptiness, seemed to hang on ancient-given lines as if the creases were well established. The clothes were old. The fateful doctrine of not-worth-while had set in. Father and son shook hands, and Sir John walked feebly to the stiff-backed chair, where he sat down in shamefaced silence. He was ashamed of his infirmities. His was the instinct of the dog that goes away into some hidden corner to die. “I am glad to see you,” he said, using his two hands to push himself further back in his chair. There was a little pause. The fire was getting low. It fell together with a feeble, crumbling sound. “Shall I put some coals on?” asked Jack. A simple question--if you will. But it was asked by the son in such a tone of quiet, filial submission, that a whole volume could not contain all that it said to the old man's proud, unbending heart. “Yes, my boy, do.” And the last six years were wiped away like evil writing from a slate. There was no explanation. These two men were not of those who explain themselves, and in the warmth of explanation say things which they do not fully mean. The opinions that each had held during the years they had left behind had perhaps been modified on both sides, but neither sought details of the modification. They knew each other now, and each respected the indomitable will of the other. They inquired after each other's health. They spoke of events of a common interest. Trifles of everyday occurrence seemed to contain absorbing details. But it is the everyday occurrence that makes the life. It was the putting on of the coals that reconciled these two men. “Let me see,” said John, “you gave up your rooms before you left England, did you not?” “Yes.” Jack drew forward his chair and put his feet out towards the fire. It was marvellous how thoroughly at home he seemed to be. “Then,” continued Sir John, “where is your luggage?” “I left it at the club.” “Send along for it. Your room is--er, quite ready for you. I shall be glad if you will make use of it as long as you like. You will be free to come and go as if you were in your own house.” Jack nodded with a strange, twisted little smile, as if he were suffering from cramp in the legs. It was cramp--at the heart. “Thanks,” he said, “I should like nothing better. Shall I ring?” “If you please.” Jack rang, and they waited in the fading daylight without speaking. At times Sir John moved his limbs, his hand on the arm of the chair and his feet on the hearth-rug, with the jerky, half-restless energy of the aged which is not pleasant to see.