The experience of separation and of war had not aged him, but it had made him feel older.  Nothing of the boy was left in him.  He felt himself of manhood all compact.  He had seen men die, had seen how they were able to die, how they met severe physical suffering; he had silently tried to prepare himself for death, keeping a cheerful countenance; he had known, like most brave men, the cold companionship of fear, and he had got rid of that companionship.  Knowing death better, he knew life much better than when he had left England.

On the voyage out he had looked at the hills of Madeira with Worthington.  Now Worthington was not with him; he had died of enteric at Pretoria in September.  Dion was carrying back to England Worthington’s last written message to his people.  He was carrying also another letter written by an English officer, whose body lay in the earth of Africa, to a woman at home.  On the voyage Dion often thought of that dead man and of the living woman to whom he would presently give the letter.  He had promised to deliver it personally.

At St. Vincent he had received a welcome by cable from Rosamund, and had sent a cable to her asking not to be met.  He wished to meet her in her home at Welsley.  She had written to him enthusiastic accounts of its peace and beauty.  Her pen had been tipped with love of it.  Their first meeting, their reunion, must take place there in the midst of that wonderful peace of green England which she loved so much.  After the heat and the dust and the pain of South Africa that would surely be very good.

Their reunion!

Dion had escaped death.  He had been allowed to return to Rosamund in splendid health, without a wound, though he had been in battle.  He had a strong presentiment that he was allowed to return for some definite purpose.  Could he not now be of far more use to his little son than if he had never volunteered for active service?  Rosamund and he had looked up together at the columns of the Parthenon and had thought of the child who might come.  Dion felt that he understood the Parthenon better now that he had looked death in the face, now that he had been ready to give up his life if it had been required of him.  He even had a whimsical feeling—­he smiled at it seriously to himself—­that the Parthenon, if he again stood before it, would understand him better.  He was not proud of himself for what he had done.  But in the depths of him he often felt earnestly glad, almost thankful, that he had been able to do it.  The doing of it had brought a new zest into life, new meanings, a new outlook.  He seemed to feel life like something precious in his hand now; he had not felt it so before, even when he had won Rosamund and had been with her in Greece.

* * * * *

The hills of Madeira faded.  Three days later there was a burial at sea in the early morning.  A private, who had been ill with enteric, had died in the night.  The body sank into the depths, the ship went on her way and ran into a stiff gale.  Already England was rousing herself to welcome her returning sons, bruskly but lustily, in her way, which was not South Africa’s way.  Dion loved that gale though it kept him awake all night.