CHAPTER XII.
SPRINGBROOK AGAIN.
Thomas Dawson was sitting in his chair in the garden enjoying the warmth of the October sunshine.

The weather was unusually warm for the time of the year, and the little breeze which blew across the garden was very acceptable.

The long graceful tendrils of the jessamine rose and fell like soft green waves above his head, a little cloud of dust rose and skidded along the road, to the annoyance of some lazy cows being driven home to the milking.
But Thomas heeded none of these things, he sat with his head sunk on his breast, his eyes staring gloomily before him, his thoughts far away.

He had aged ten years and more in the last two.

A very slight sound, though from within the house, roused him in an instant and brought him to his feet.
"I'm coming, mother, I'm coming," he called, and went indoors.
"I expect it's pretty nigh tea-time, isn't it ?" he asked, with affected cheerfulness; "the fire only wants a stir, and the kettle'll boil in no time." Patience nodded and took up the poker.