“Thank God!” she said, “and—­and you—­and—­John.  God forgive me, I have been a fool!”

The next two days went by without incident.  Askew rode, walked, and had no news for her except, “He is doing well.”  He would say no more.  What hours of doubt, of watchful fear, he had, she never knew.  On the morning of the third day, while the carriage waited to carry him away, Mrs. Penhallow led him into her library.

“Now,” she said, with her cheque-book open before her, “we owe you a debt none can pay, but let me offer you my most humble apologies for my behaviour when you came.”

“Please, don’t,” he returned.

“But I had to.  And now, let me know what is our lesser and more material debt?”

He rose, smiling.  “It has been my happy, unbroken rule to take nothing from any soldier who served in this sad war—­oh! on either side.  I have made, I hope, some friends.  The Colonel asked to-day about a horse Dixy—­I think—­and when could he ride.  You may imagine my pleasure.  He will get well, but you must be patient.  I leave him in competent hands, and in the fall I mean to come back and shoot your woodcocks.  Good-bye.”  He was gone.

CHAPTER XXXIII

A week later Ann Penhallow was told that she might see her husband.  She entered his bedroom with timidity.  “Oh, Ann, my most dear Ann!” he cried, as she kissed him.  His expression of recovered intelligence overcame her for a moment.

She faltered, “How are you feeling, James—­any better?”

“Better—­I am well.”

“Hardly, dear—­do be careful.”  She was unable to accept as a wholesome reality this amazing resurrection of a mind.

He understood her need for some reassurance, and said, “Don’t worry about me, Ann.  It is like a vague dream, all these many months—­but a dream you know fades fast.  My own memories get clearer—­some things are quite lost—­some are as distinct as if they happened yesterday.  The war is a puzzle to me—­and—­if I try to remember, it confuses me.  But I must not talk war to you—­I do remember that.  I won’t do it again, dear.”

There was something so childlike in this that it almost overcame the woman’s steadily guarded calm.  She had been warned to be careful that there should be no excitement to agitate a mind which was slowly groping its way out of the shadows of half-illumined memories.

“Oh, my dear James,” she said quietly, “talk of war or anything; it is over.”  Despite her cautious command of her voice it trembled with emotion as she said, “Nothing is of any moment but you—­you.  What do I care for the war or—­or anything but to have you as you were?  Oh, my God!  I am thankful.”

It disturbed him, as she saw.  He felt and looked puzzled as he said, “I see—­I am not quite clear-headed yet, Ann.”

“No, but you will be.  Don’t try too hard, James.  We must be patient and wait.”