WITH THE STREAM It was Winston's last afternoon at the Grange, and almost unpleasantly hot, while the man whose vigor had not as yet returned to him was content to lounge in the big window-seat listlessly watching his companion.

He had borne the strain of effort long, and the time of his convalescence amid the tranquillity of Silverdale Grange had with the gracious kindliness of Miss Barrington and her niece been a revelation to him.

There were moments when it brought him bitterness and self-reproach, but these were usually brief, and he made the most of what he knew might never be his again, telling himself that it would at least be something to look back upon.
Maud Barrington sat close by, glancing through the letters a mounted man had brought in, and the fact that his presence put no restraint on her curiously pleased the man.

At last, however, she opened a paper and passed it across to him.
"You have been very patient, but no doubt you will find something that will atone for my silence there," she said.
Winston turned over the journal, and then smiled at her.

"Is there anything of moment in your letters ?" "No," said the girl, with a little laugh.