Once more Ronald Earle stood upon English shores; once again he heard his mother tongue spoken all around him, once again he felt the charm of quiet, sweet English scenery.

Seventeen years had passed since he had taken Dora's hand in his and told her he cared nothing for all he was leaving behind him, nothing for any one in the world save herself--seventeen years, and his love-dream had lasted but two! Then came the cruel shock that blinded him with anger and shame; then came the rude awakening from his dream when, looking his life bravely in the face, he found it nothing but a burden--hope and ambition gone--the grand political mission he had once believed to be his own impossible nothing left to him of his glorious dreams but existence--and all for what?
For the mad, foolish love of a pretty face.

He hated himself for his weakness and folly.

For that--for the fair, foolish woman who had shamed him so sorely--he had half broken his mother's heart, and had imbittered his father's life.

For that he had made himself an exile, old in his youth, worn and weary, when life should have been all smiling around him.
These thoughts flashed through his mind as the express train whirled through the quiet English landscape.