The banker grunted, not convinced; Mr. Frazer shook hands with Julia and said he hoped it would not be long before he saw her; Mrs. Polkington reiterated the remark, kissing her the while; then they drove away and Julia went into the house.  She went into the back kitchen; Mr. Gillat was not there; the dishes were all put away and the place was quite tidy.  Julia went through to the front kitchen; there she saw Johnny; he was kneeling by the Captain’s old chair, his arms thrown across the seat, his silly pink face buried in them, his rounded shoulders shaking with sobs.

Johnny loved as a dog loves, without reason, without thought of return; not for wisdom, worth or deserts, just because he did love and, having once loved, loved always; forgiving everything, expecting nothing—­foolish, faithful, true.  So he loved his friend, so he mourned him now, be-blubbering the seat of the shabby chair which spoke so eloquently to him of the irritable, exacting presence now gone for ever.

“Johnny,” Julia said softly; “Johnny dear.”

She put a hand on the round shoulders and somehow slipped herself into the shabby chair.

“Johnny,” she said, “let us sit by the fire awhile and not talk of anything at all.”

So they sat together till twilight fell.

The next day there came another to Julia, one who knew nothing of what had befallen in these last days.  It was almost twilight when he came; Johnny had gone out to collect fir-cones; Julia sent him, partly because their stock was low and partly because she thought it would do him good.  She did not expect him back much before five o’clock; it would be dark by then certainly, but not very dark for the day was clear, with a touch of frost in the air; one of those days when the last of the sunset burns low down in the sky long after the stars are out.  It was not much after four o’clock when Julia heard something approaching, certainly not Johnny nor anything connected with him, for it was the throb of a motor coming fast.  Only once before since she had been at the cottage had she heard that sound on the lonely road, on the day when Rawson-Clew came.  It could not be him now, she was sure of that.  He might have received the money this morning certainly, but he would not come because of that, rather he would keep away; there was no reason why he should come.  She told herself it was impossible, and then went to the door to see, puzzled in her own mind what she should say if the impossible had happened and it was he.

The throbbing had ceased by now; there was the click of the gate even as she opened the door, and he—­it was he and no other—­was coming up the little brick path in the twilight.  His face was curiously clear in the light which lingered low down; and when she saw it and the look it wore, all plans of what she should say fled, and the feeling came upon her which was like that which came when she crouched behind the chopping-block and he barred the way.  It seemed as if he had been pursuing and she escaping and eluding for a long time, but now—­he was coming up the path and she was standing in the doorway with the pale light strong on her face and nowhere to fly to and no way of escape.