"Jockie beats anyone I know for walking into a heavy squall, and coming out of it triumphant. She not only knows what she wants, but she gets it done before I've half-finished surveying the situation."
RANDOLPH'S RETURN
"HE will come home."
"Do you think he will?"
"Sure to. It's a most splendid appointment."
It was a year later. Monica and Sidney were sitting in the garden. Sidney was working, whilst Monica was reading the newspaper; and it was Randolph Neville whom they were discussing. There was a short paragraph in the paper, mentioning the good work he had done on the frontier, and the appointment that was offered to him of an important Government post in Central India.
Monica had had a terrible year of suffering and struggling against her fate. She had been through many treatments, but with very little result as regards improvement to her health. She could walk a little with the help of a stick, and use her hands; but she would never be a strong active woman again; and she had at last grasped this fact and accepted it. Sidney had never left her. Monica had told her that if she did, she would not endure her life a day longer; and though her rash words were unconvincing, Sidney had not the heart to leave her alone.
The months had been testing times for all, for Monica's courage deserted her, and she was a captious irritable impatient invalid. Aunt Dannie worried her so much, and realised that she did, that she finally left her and went to make a home with an old friend of hers in London. Sidney took the household into her care, a good working bailiff was found for the farm, and the routine of life went on pretty much as before.
Chuckles came home for his holidays, and gladdened the place with his presence. But his aunt never spoke to him about being a farmer now. She had decided to sell the place as soon as she got a good offer for it and retire into a town, where Chuckles could attend a good day school. Her hair was grey, and her face lined like an old woman; for this upheaval in her life had met and conquered all her fighting strength, and her agonising and futile efforts to get the better of it had left scars behind which would not ever be effaced.
Sidney's sweetness and patience with her, her unfailing cheerfulness, and unswerving trust in One Who is Lord of circumstances, did much to soften her lot; but though Monica had accepted her fate, she was not resigned to it. She had been very slowly, from constant intercourse with Sidney, learning a few lessons that were not of her own materialistic school; but though she was seeing through a glass darkly, she was still outside that circle of rest and assurance in which:
Though "the fig tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in the vines, the labour of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield no meat; the flock shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be no herd in the stalls," yet the bereaved one is able to "rejoice in the Lord," and "joy in the God of his salvation."
She was still her determined practical self; very quiet about her deep feelings, coldly undemonstrative to everyone but Sidney. But she was beginning to take more interest in the outside world, and to bear the visits of her friends without the resentment she had showed at first.
Sidney's heart beat quickly at the thought that she might possibly see Randolph soon.
Their letters had insensibly altered in character from the time when they had first started their correspondence. She felt she could not greet him now as a mere acquaintance. He was a good deal more to her than that. And as she mused upon the probability of an early meeting, the flush deepened in her cheeks, and the light came to her eyes.
About four days afterwards, Monica received a wire.
"Can you put me up? Landed in London last night.—RANDOLPH."
And Sidney felt as if she were walking on air after it came.
It was a most exquisite evening in August when he arrived. The dogcart had been sent to the station for him, and Monica and Sidney greeted him from their seat on the lawn. He strode towards them, looking thin and sunburnt; but his eyes were on Sidney's face and no other.
"How good to see you here," he said, as he took her hand in his. "I hardly dared to hope it."
Monica smiled at his outspokenness.
"She is where she always is," she said,—"where her help is needed. Since I have become such a crock, she has supplied all my deficiencies."
And then Randolph turned to her.
"I can't tell you how sorry I am," he murmured.
"Well, if you are, you mustn't say so. Because I am not yet able to endure pity. Here is Chuckles coming to greet you. He was hoping to drive you back from the station, but arrived home too late from the Rectory."
Chuckles had flung himself delightedly on Randolph. His school had not as yet robbed him of his impulsive affectionate ways.
"I'm simply longing to hear about India, Cousin Ran."
"Well, give me breathing space, old chap. I'll do my best later on. Now I want to hear all the news round here; my news can wait."
Sidney had slipped into the house. It was more than she could bear to stay quietly there. The touch of his hand, the look in his eyes, the tone of his voice, were all too much for her. She felt like breaking down. She would have given worlds to have had her first meeting with him alone, but Monica hardly realised how things were between them. And Sidney had hardly realised it herself until she was brought face to face with him.
Randolph's eyes followed her to the house. And then Monica, looking up, caught the hungry unsatisfied look in his eyes, and understood. She promptly resolved to give him his opportunity later on.
Meanwhile, with Chuckles on his knee, he sat and asked after Major Urquhart.
"Oh, he is pretty well; but he is not a happy man, and is in complete subjection to his wife. She fills the house with visitors whenever she gets a chance; but I have nothing to say against her. She is sweetness itself to all outsiders, and is always doing little kindnesses to her neighbours. Her role is to be popular. As a matter-of-fact, people round here take her existence very quietly, and do not have much to do with her. They can't get over Sidney's dethronement."
His lips met together in a stern line.
"And has she no home but this?"
"Not at present. I assure you it's not a bad one, taking everything into consideration. She has had bad times with me, but we're really fond of each other, and she says she is happy and content."
"And what about young Austin? Is he married yet? I haven't seen the young lady, have I?"
"No; she arrived in this part after you left. Well, of course, people shook their heads at first; but, really, it seems turning out remarkably well. They were married last May, and Jockie is perfectly happy living under the wings of her mother-in-law. She has a most astonishing capacity of adapting herself to her surroundings, and from a rather noisy hoyden, she is shaking down into a very fascinating and sweet little daughter of the house. Old Mr. de Cressiers is pretty much the same. He is devoted to Jockie; and Austin has settled down in great content."
Chuckles had kept silent as long as he could. Now he burst forth:
"And I go to school, Cousin Ran, and I'm in the eleven, and I gets more runs than any other chap."
"Wonderful!" said Randolph absently; then he turned to Monica. "She's looking so frail. Has she been ill?"
There was no need to ask who "she" was.
"I think I have worn her out a good deal," said Monica gravely. "But, of course, she's been through a lot since you saw her last. And though her spirit is not broken, nor her bright hopefulness taken from her, yet the loss of her father and home has told upon her physically."
Randolph was silent for a moment or two. Then he rose from his seat, and stood looking down upon his cousin with pity in his eyes. Chuckles dashed away into the house. He could never be still for very long.
"You won't let me say how sorry I am for what has befallen you," he said.
"No. Please don't try to. It is just what I cannot stand. Talk to me as you would in the old days. Try to feel that my individuality is as strong and unimpaired as ever. It is only my outer shell that is the crock."
"It is strange that such trouble should come upon you both in the same year," said Randolph musingly.
"Yes," said Monica, with a little dry smile. "I tell Sidney we are the two builders who built their houses side by side, one on the rock, the other on the sand. The storms have come and beaten upon us; hers still stands firm, but mine has gone under. And I tell you honestly that I would give anything sometimes to have Sidney's faith. Something to which I could cling, some light beyond the present. I'm sitting amongst the ruins of my plans and hopes, and though I've given up the struggle at last of trying to erect my building again, I'm not what you call resigned or happy. It's a cruel fate to overtake me, is it not?"
"I should start building again," said Randolph, looking at her meditatively. "It may have to be a different style of building, and upon a different foundation, but you can still be a builder of sorts."
Monica made no reply. Then she made a move towards the house, and quiet talk was for the time postponed. Sidney appeared when the evening meal was ready. She wore a simple white gown. She might be thin, and her face somewhat transparent, but the flush on her cheeks and light in her eyes made her look very radiant.
Randolph could hardly keep his eyes off her, but he was led to talk of his experiences, and he had a good deal of interesting news to give, so that Sidney lost her momentary fit of self-consciousness and was an eager listener. Young George Lockhart had got promotion besides himself, and had already written to Gavine to ask her to come out and share his life.
"He's as steady as a rock now," said Randolph, "and has a good future in front of him. I hope she is the kind of girl to be a help to him."
"She will be a tremendous help to him if she goes," said Sidney warmly.
And then, with a little hesitation, Randolph said:
"I came down here with a Major Hughes and his wife. He used to live in this neighbourhood, did he not? They're visiting the Woods. We got into conversation. I knew her before she married."
His eyes never left his plate as he spoke. He felt, much as he longed to meet Sidney's eyes as he hurled this bolt upon her, that it would be more honourable on his part not to do so.
Sidney's tone was easy and assured.
"Yes; Archie Hughes is an old friend. I thought he was still in India."
"His wife was ordered home by doctors, so he has come with her to spend his long leave."
"You never told me that you knew his wife," said Monica, eyeing him anxiously.
"Did I not? I used to be often at her father's house in town."
Sidney was slightly distrait for the rest of the meal. But when it was over, Monica asked her to show Randolph some new farm buildings which had been erected since he had been there.
"They were a good investment," said Monica quietly, "though I shan't have the use of them much longer. I am putting up the place for sale shortly."
Randolph walked out into the sweet evening air, feeling that his opportunity was close at hand. What were farm buildings to him when Sidney was by his side? How hungrily he had longed for the sound of her voice, the sight of her smile, in those distant lands which had held him!
Sidney trod lightly by his side.
"What is Mrs. Hughes like?" she asked.
"She looks ill and worn now, but she used to be a pretty girl when I knew her." Then, in rather a stern tone, he added: "She was engaged to be married to me before she went out to India." Sidney drew her breath in sharply.
"And I was engaged to him," she said simply, "or thought I was."
They were crossing the old orchard. He turned round quickly, and, before Sidney realised it, both her hands were imprisoned in his.
"Isn't it a remarkable thing that the two who wrought havoc in our lives should be brought before us, to-night of all nights?"
"Why?" asked Sidney gently.
"Because I am hoping that we have both learnt not to regret the past. I know I have. Have you?"
Sidney raised her eyes to his, the eyes that Randolph loved so to meet, so clear and deep and sweet were they under their long curled lashes.
"Yes," she said. "I have no regrets."
Then he spoke, and strong man as he was, his voice was a little husky, and he paled under his emotion.
"I wonder if you guess why I have come home? By night and day your presence has been with me. I have closed my eyes and pictured you before me; I have dreamed so often that a rustle of your gown in passing, a whispered call, told me that you were with me. I got heart-sick for a sight of you, the sound of your voice. Oh, Sidney, sweetest, will you let me tell you how I long to take care of you for the rest of your life? You have been spending your life in looking after others, will you let me look after you? I want to love you, to guard you, to make it my one business in life to make you happy. Do you think I shall be able to do it? Will you trust yourself entirely to me?"
Sidney's hands trembled in his. Her lips quivered. Though this was an exquisite moment in her life, her eyes were blinded by a mist of tears. She allowed his strong arm to come round her, and with a little happy sigh leant her head against his shoulder.
"Oh!" she said softly. "If you have wanted me, I have wanted you. I believe I have missed you every day since you went."
"And I you. Do you remember, darling, the first night we came to dine at The Anchorage—Monica and I? You were standing outside the door, looking like some ethereal being who had come to earth, met with bitter disappointment and disillusion, and was already poised for flight. Your soul seemed reaching out to heaven. That picture of you has never left my heart. And now I will confess to you that same evening I discovered your trouble. Do you remember coming down to the river just before you left Lady Fielding's, and calling out in the anguish of your heart: 'Oh, God! Teach me to forget!' I was an unwilling listener, for I had just arrived, thought nobody was in, and was lying under the wall in a boat. And you uttered the words that were hammering away in my own brain. I had that morning received the same shock as you had, and was in great bitterness of soul. When I heard you sing, it flashed across me that I had heard your voice before, and then I remembered."
Sidney lowered her head a little.
"That dreadful day I hardly know what I did, and how I got home to father. Oh, it was dreadful! But it is past. Don't let us think of it. How wonderful it was that we were brought together! How strange that we each should have been dealt the same blow!"
"Yes, Fate plays many tricks, does she not? Oh, Sidney! Sweetheart, I can hardly believe I have won you! How often when I was here before, I longed to chase the sadness out of your eyes! How I have prayed for this moment to hold you in my arms, and tell you how I loved you! The time has been sweetened out abroad by your letters; I have carried them about; I have slept with them under my pillow. I have learnt them by heart, and kissed the writing night and morning, but they're a poor exchange after all for you, yourself. I got foolishly jealous at one time of young Austin. I was glad when you told me that he had gone abroad. It was torture to me when you left your home, and I knew that you had no longer any man to care for you or protect you. I know I'm out of date; but, thank God, you are! You don't want to go through life alone and independent, do you? You will be content to come to me, and let me have the joy of caring for you?"
Sidney's murmured assent was hardly needed. She felt the exquisite rest of soul that a good and strong man's love brings to one. She believed in him and she loved him. He would never disappoint her.
Presently she released herself, but the farm buildings were forgotten. They wandered round in the twilight talking over their letters, their experiences, their need of each other; and when they at last returned to the house, Monica received them in her matter-of-fact fashion.
"I am sure you have never been near my buildings. Well, it served its purpose, and now accept my congratulations. You are a very lucky man, Randolph, to have won her heart. But I don't like the idea of you carrying her off from us all. How shall we get on without her?"
"You can get on better without her than I can," said Randolph, with erect head and triumphantly happy eyes. "And I think it is her turn to be taken care of. You people down here seem to regard her as a general help, one whom you can send for at a moment's notice, if you get into any sort of trouble. I am going to stop all that, for she is worn-out in working for others."
"Never!" said Sidney, looking up at him with kindling eyes. "Don't you know that is a woman's highest ideal, to be wanted?"
"Then that ideal will be realised, for I have only half lived since I met you first, and then had to part from you."
"It's just another form of selfishness," said Monica dryly. "She will have to centre herself round one individual, instead of round many."
Randolph laughed lightheartedly.
"You have me there," he said; "but I'm not going to take her to a desert island. She is going to help me at Empire building."
A sharp line showed itself between Monica's brows.
"Oh, this building!" she exclaimed. "It is getting on my nerves."
Sidney bent over her and kissed her.
"We won't talk about it any more, Monnie, and you are not going to lose me yet, not for a long time."
A STRANGE ENCOUNTER
"Is Uncle Ted in?"
Sidney wanted to tell her uncle herself of her engagement. Randolph and she had come down to The Anchorage together, and Mrs. Urquhart had received them rather ceremoniously in the drawing-room. Randolph was a stranger to her; and she had no idea of what had taken place. Sidney, felt unable to break the news to her, and wanted to get away to her uncle, and Mrs. Urquhart was only too pleased to entertain any visitor.
"You will find him in his workshop. He doesn't do much but smoke and sleep there. I'm afraid his working days are over."
Sidney sped away. She did not find her uncle asleep. He was surrounded by papers, and was writing rather laboriously when she entered, but made an attempt to hide his handiwork.
When he saw she was alone he stood up, received her greeting, then turned and locked the door behind her.
"I will have you to myself," he said, rather desperately. "I want to show you something."
Sidney smiled into his anxious-looking face.
"Ethel is entertaining a visitor—Randolph Neville. Do you remember him? He has come home, and is staying with Monnie."
"He was rather a nice chap. Oh, well, she won't miss you, if he is with her. Sit down. I want to tell you something."
Sidney quietly obeyed him. Her own news could keep. She saw that her uncle was full of his own affairs.
Major Urquhart leant back in his chair. Looking at him Sidney saw that his hair was rapidly getting white; he had become a careworn old man, and her heart ached for him, for she knew that the atmosphere of love was wanting in his home, and there was but little comfort for him.
"I've been making my will," her uncle said solemnly; "one can't tell at my time of life how soon it might be wanted. I've had it drawn up and legally witnessed, and it is here."
He patted a businesslike envelope on his table. "I've been writing a letter to my wife explaining the contents of it. The letter I am going to lock up in dear Vernon's writing bureau. She'll soon find that after—after I'm taken. But I want you to know, and only you, where I am going to put my will. I'm not going to have any risk of it being lost; and she's rather thick with that lawyer chap. Upon my word, I'm beginning to suspect everybody nowadays. Look here!"
He went up to the fireplace, and, stooping down, took up a bit of the flooring in a recess by the side of it. Sidney followed him, and saw a tin box reposing underneath.
"That's where my will is going to be!" he said impressively.
"All right, uncle. May it remain there for many a long year."
He shook his head.
"We are not a long-lived family. Look at poor Vernon! Well, I've relieved my mind. And you'll be able to have it produced when necessary. You see, the best of women are curious, and I shouldn't like her to get an inkling of its contents, so I have put it where she will never be able to find it. And I would like you to know, Sid, that the old house and its contents will just come back to you. She would never live here. She has no love for the place. I couldn't rest in my grave, unless I felt that I had made my wrongdoing right as far as possible. I shall like to feel that in days to come you, and perhaps children who may come after you, will still be here."
Tears were in Sidney's eyes.
"You are a dear, Uncle Ted! I don't want to thank you now. I don't know how you have done it; but, of course, you will remember that your wife has the first claim upon you. If she doesn't care for the house—"
"Oh, yes, yes; we won't discuss the money part of it."
"I want to tell you," Sidney went on quietly, "that Randolph Neville wants me to go back to India with him. You see, I shall be provided for. Will this make any difference?"
"None whatever," said the Major stoutly, "except to ease my mind at present about you. So that is the way the land lies, is it? I'm glad he's had the sense to come home. Well, well! You can't live in India for the rest of your days. You'll be glad enough to retire after a bit, and then you Will find this place useful. But what does he say to finding you turned out of your home? I never shall hold up my head again."
It was the usual strain when Sidney visited her uncle. He always began lamenting over the past. Sidney stopped him rather sharply.
"Now, Uncle Ted, if you begin talking like that, I shall run away. Don't you see how everything has turned out for the best? If you and I had been living on here together, how could I have left you? I shouldn't have had the heart to do it. I should have told Randolph that he must wait, and he would have had to sail back to India alone. As it is, I know you are being taken care of in your own Dome, and so I shall go out happily with him."
The Major cheered up at once.
"Yes, yes, I see. Well, that gives me a gleam of light. Is Neville here? I should like to see him. He is a lucky dog, that he is!"
They both returned to the drawing-room. Randolph had evidently enlightened Mrs. Urquhart. She came up to Sidney and kissed her.
"So glad, my dear Sidney, to hear the news. It was a pleasant surprise. And isn't it strange that by yesterday's post I got a letter from Gavine, telling me she was engaged to young George Lockhart. I understand Mr. Neville and he are great cronies. It gave me quite a shock when I had the letter. These modern daughters settle up their own affairs quite independently. I shall have to congratulate her and provide her trousseau. That is all my part of it."
"Dear Gavine!" said Sidney warmly. "She deserves to be happy, for she is spending her life in trying to make others so."
They did not stay much longer. Randolph was impatient to get Sidney to himself. They were walking home to the farm, talking as only lovers can, when suddenly, in a turn of the road, they came face to face with a little group of people. Jockie and Austin were escorting some friends down to the riverside. They were in boating attire. It was a trying moment for all, for Sidney and Randolph instantly recognised the couple who had wrought tragedy in their lives—Archibald Hughes and his wife. Introductions followed, of course. Mrs. Hughes had a washed-out appearance, and rather a spiritless laugh, but light came into her eyes as she turned to Randolph. She could not forget the past; few women can.
"I was wondering when we should meet you again," she said. "We came over to Thanning Towers last night to dine and sleep, and now we have been persuaded to stay to a water picnic. But you know Sir Peter, of course. Do come over and see us."
"I'm afraid I shall not be able to, thanks," said Randolph briefly.
Archie Hughes was the most awkward one of the party. He was trying to be unconscious of Sidney's presence; and yet she had never looked more charming than she did now, and he found his eyes wandering towards her in spite of himself.
In the first shock of the meeting Sidney had paled even to her very lips, but her greeting was perfectly assured and gracious.
"When are you going back to India?" she asked him.
"Er—when?—er—I think in about a month's time. We're visiting round in this neighbourhood for a week or so. A lot of changes. Sorry to hear about your father. Never knew it till we got here. Is your uncle here still?"
"Yes. He has married since you were in this part. He would be very glad to see you."
As she talked to him, calm conviction came to her that the love she had had for this man once was absolutely dead. She contrasted his loose and somewhat stout exterior with the wiry-knit frame of Randolph. Archie did not seem to have improved with time, and his marriage was not one which would lead him to take serious views of life.
Jockie, of course, was most eager that Sidney and Randolph should join them in their expedition. She could not understand her husband's want of enthusiasm in the proposal; but she was the only one of the party who was ignorant of the past.
When at last the boating party went on their way, Jockie exclaimed:
"And that is the frontier hero whom Gavine has talked so much about. Well, they will make a splendid couple. Now I know where Sidney's heart has been all this time. I always felt she would never remain an unappropriated blessing for long."
"She's rather good-looking," said Mrs. Hughes.
"Oh, she's perfectly beautiful," said warm-hearted Jockie; "but it is herself we love her for, isn't it, Austin?"
"I hope he'll be good enough for her," said Austin. "I thought it would have come off when he was here before."
Archie was silent. What could he say?
It had been a remarkable meeting, and Sidney and Randolph were the only ones involved who could view the past without regret.
"I am glad our meeting is over," said Sidney, slipping her arm in that of Randolph's. "I was foolishly dreading it, but I only feel thankful now."
Randolph bent down over her.
"We have both suffered," he said; "but now let us bury the past. The future is ours, and my own aim in life now will be to make you and keep you happy."
"It won't be difficult to do that."
Sidney had for so long lived in the shade that this sudden spell of sunshine almost overwhelmed her. Tears came into her eyes. Then she met Randolph's gaze and smiled.
"Don't make too much of me, will you? Oh, Randolph, I do believe that God meant us for each other, and so in love He prevented us from making the mistake of our lives."
Later on Monica was told about it. Randolph was lured away by Chuckles to inspect his rabbits, and Sidney sat and talked with her friend.
"What I like about Ran," said Monica in her matter-of-fact way, "is that his love is unselfish. It will wear well, Sidney. His first thought is of what he can be to you. Most men think of what you can be to them. I am glad you two have come together. I remember the time when I thought you and Archie Hughes would make a match of it. But he was never good enough for you. You would have had to be always pulling him uphill after you."
"The only regret I shall have is leaving you," said Sidney slowly and thoughtfully.
"You have pulled me through my worst time," said Monica. "I have always been accustomed to stand on my own. I'm not one of the world's leaners."
"But I wish I could leave you happier."
"You want me to think as you do, don't you? I may come at it some day, but not yet. You have made me realise what faith can do. Whether I shall ever arrive at it, is a different matter."
"If you could only see how lost one is without a centre," cried Sidney, "and how much we owe to the One Who made us."
Monica looked thoughtfully at her, but made no reply.
"Oh," Sidney went on earnestly, "it is just being illustrated over again with you and Chuckles. How you have toiled and slaved for that child! How anxiously you have worked and saved to bequeath to him a good inheritance. How you even were ready to sacrifice your life for his, and have, in saving him, condemned yourself to a crippled life. He realises it all so little; he does not understand. He takes it all as a matter of course, and seems to have no sense of gratitude or wish to please the one who has loved him so. Isn't that how we treat our Father?"
The words sank into Monica's heart. She began to see dimly a little of what she had missed in her life; but she said nothing, only turned the conversation into another channel.
And presently Randolph returned with the chattering boy.
"We've been having a lovely time. Cousin Ran has been telling me about snakes. Aunt Monnie, I'd like to go out to India one day and do what Cousin Ran is doing. Miss Sid says he's an Empire builder. I should like to build an Empire. It's such a big thing to do."
"You won't be ready for that just yet," said Monica.
"And you have to take care of your aunt, Chuckles," said Sidney. "She will want someone to love her and care for her when we have gone."
"Is Cousin Ran going to take you away from us? That's horribly nasty of him."
"I can't build without her," said Randolph.
"She does know how to build wonderful," said the child with a wise nod. "She taught me all about it; she said God taught her, so, of course, she couldn't build wrong."
"Of course she couldn't," said Randolph gravely, as his eyes met Sidney's. "We can all learn from the Master Builder, and then there will be no mistakes."
"But you will be done building before me," pursued Chuckles, who, once on his favourite topic, was not easily quenched; "because the older people are, the higher their house is, and when it's very high and close to heaven, God takes them in. I made that up myself."
Sidney smiled, but Monica's brows were furrowed.
"Of course," Chuckles continued in his most dreamy voice, as he gazed up into the summer sky, "some people get their houses knocked down, and then, I suppose, they begin again. Miss Sid says they can. That's because they didn't build tight on the rock. I do hope my building won't slip off the rock."
"Run off to bed," said his aunt shortly.
She felt she could bear no more.
Chuckles obediently wished them all good-night; then, as a parting shot, he called out to Randolph:
"I see you out of my window when you take Miss Sid through the garden. You stick so close you only make one shadow!"
"That is what we will do through life," murmured Randolph in Sidney's ear, not at all embarrassed by the child's remark. "Our shadows will be merged into one."
Later on, when they were taking their evening stroll together, Sidney looked up at Chuckles' window.
"I hope he will grow up a comfort to Monnie," she said. "She has spoiled her life in saving him; and yet I do think no life can be spoiled down here. She will come through it yet, a nobler and finer character."
"She will learn to rebuild, eh?" said Randolph, divining Sidney's thoughts.
And then, as if Chuckles had heard them, he raised his window and shot his head out.
"I see you! Miss Sid, do you know why I'm going to be like a limpet? Because I'm going to build tight and stick to the rock for ever and ever. I've just said it in my prayers."
And Randolph raised his hat and looked upwards. "Amen," he said.
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