dazzling loneliness of that great field of snow.  Below me are the grim shafts of the mines, down which the prisoners here go ironed every day.  Away on the horizon westwards is the black line of pine forests, in whose shadows is night everlasting.  A wolf howls beneath my window every night, and for months I have seen no colour save in an occasionally lurid sunset with crimson afterglow.  In the daytime I help in the hospital—­at night I sit before a wood fire and look out beyond my whitewashed walls across the mighty forest, back to London, and then, dear, you may know that it is you of whom I am thinking.

“Your telegrams reached me together, or I would have stopped you on the way.  I am glad, Douglas, that you know the truth; I am glad that you have wanted me.  Be patient and brave.  Life is opening for you through many avenues.  Take what comes to you, and remember that your development is a holy duty to yourself and your fellows.  We are like two stars, Douglas, who have passed one another in the darkness and floated away into a great sea of space.  The future may be ours again, but the present is for other things than regrets.  There are worlds to lighten ever, though our shining is a very small thing.  Be true to yourself and to your destiny.

“I want to be honest with you, Douglas.  For the first time in my life I am willingly suffering privations, I am neglecting my own amusement and happiness for the sake of others.  Yet I am not of the stuff whereof saints and martyrs are fashioned.  This life in time would drive me mad.  You would ask me I know—­how long?  I answer that I stay here so long as I can bear it and my health serves.  It may be for months, perhaps years.  Yet I promise you this, if it is a promise which you care to have.  When it is ended I will send you word.

“Until then, Douglas, if you care to have me sign myself so,

“I am,

“Your faithful friend,

“EMILY DE REUSS.”

Douglas drew paper and ink towards him, and wrote back with breathless haste—­

“I will do your bidding, and whether it be for a year or twenty years, I will wait.”

* * * * *

He carried her letter with him to Cicely’s wedding, and they all noticed with pleasure a new buoyancy in his walk and bearing, a keener light in his eyes, and the old true ring in his voice.  There was never a shadow of envy in his heart as he watched Drexley’s happiness.  Joan and he saw them off at Charing Cross for the Continent, and they walked back to her rooms together.

“So you are really going home to Feldwick, Joan?” he asked.

She nodded.

“Yes.  Since I left it I have done nothing but make mistakes.  I think that the old life is best for me.”

He glanced at her curiously a moment or two later as they crossed the street.  She had grown older during the last few months, and there were streaks of grey in her hair.  Yet the lines in her face were softer, the narrowness and suspicion were smoothed away; her eyes were still keen, but with a kindlier light.  At her door, where he parted from her, she looked away across his shoulder.