“And this, my son?” questioned my father kindly.  “We would bid her welcome also; yet surely she cannot be that little child for whose sake we sent you forth?”

I took her by the hand as we faced them.

“You sent me in search of one whom you would receive even as your own child,” I answered simply.  “This is Roger Matherson’s daughter, and the dear wife of your son.”

What need have I to dwell upon the love that bade her welcome?  And so it was that out of all the suffering and danger,—­forth from the valley of the shadow of death,—­Toinette and I came home.