Three Weeks

He left the park far behind, and struck away across the moor. As he passed some gipsy vans a swarthy young woman looked out, an infant in her arms, and gave him a smiling greeting. But Paul stopped and said good-day, tossing her a sovereign with laughing, cheery words--for her little child--and so passed on, his glad face radiant as the morn.

But the woman called after him in gratitude: "Blessings on your honour. Your own will grace a throne."

And the strange coincidence of her prophecy set fresh thrills of delight bounding in Paul's veins.

He walked and walked, stopping to lunch at an inn miles away. He could not bear even to see his parents--or the familiar scenes at home; and as once before he had felt in his grief--he and his joy must be alone to-day.

When he turned to come back in the late afternoon, the torrent of his wild happiness had crystallised itself into coherent thought and question. Surely she would send him some more words and make some plan to see him. But at least he was in touch with her again and knew she was his own--his own. The silence had broken, and human ingenuity would find some way of meeting.

The postmark was Vienna--though that meant nothing at all; she could have sent Dmitry there to post the letter. But at best, even if it were Russia, a few days' journey only separated him from his darling and--his son! Then the realisation of that proud fact of parenthood came over him again. He said the words aloud, "My son!"

And with a cry of wild exaltation he vaulted a gate like a schoolboy and ran along the path, Pike bounding in the air in frantic sympathy. Thus Paul returned to his home again, hope singing in his heart.

* * * * *

But even his father did not guess why that night at dinner he raised his champagne glass and drank a silent toast--his eyes gazing into distance as if he there saw heaven.