CHAPTER XI.
THE MIRAGE Helen awaited in her sitting-room the return of the carriage.
It had been a great effort to let it go to the station without her.

In fact she had ordered it to the front door, and put on her hat and coat in readiness.
But at the last minute it had seemed impossible to meet Ronnie on a railway platform.
So she sent the brougham off without her, went upstairs, put on a soft trailing gown specially admired by Ronnie, paused at the nursery to make sure all was quiet and ready, then came down to her sitting-room, and tried to listen for a sound other than the beating of her own heart.
The room looked very home-like and cosy.

A fire crackled gaily on the hearth.

The winter curtains were drawn; the orange lampshades cast a soft golden light around.
The tea-table stood ready--cups and plates for two.

The firelight shone on the embossed brightness of the urn and teapot.
Ronnie's favourite low chair was ready for him.
The room seemed in every detail to whisper, "Home"; and the woman who waited knew that the home within her heart, yearning to receive and welcome and hold him close, after his long, long absence from her, was more tender, more beautiful, more radiant, than outward surroundings could possibly be made.
No word save the one telegram had come from Ronnie since her letter to Leipzig.