Chapter Twenty.

When St. John had closed the door after his father he walked into the studio and busied himself unnecessarily shifting back scenes and rearranging everything in order to work off the depression the recent interview had left behind. He thoroughly understood that this was the final break with his father, and the realisation cost him more than one pang of bitter regret. He felt that to a certain extent he had been wanting in duty, and yet he knew that he could not have acted otherwise; the whole thing was as deplorable as it was inevitable; and it might have been so different had it not been for the obstinate pride of one ambitious old man.

In the midst of his sad reflections he forgot Jill altogether. Sorrow inclines one to be selfish, and St. John just then was dwelling so much upon his own wounded feelings that he had no room for any other thought. That Jill, too, might be hurt, and that very possibly she was worrying on his account did not occur to him or he would have gone to her at once, instead he seated himself on a little rustic bench that had so often served to pose a difficult subject, and leaned his head dejectedly upon his open palm. And thus Jill found him later when, having left her baby in his Godfather’s charge, she came in search of him wondering at his continued absence. The sight brought the tears to her eyes, and she drew back with the half-formed resolve of going away unseen, but changing her mind almost immediately she dropped the shabby curtain which formed the exit behind her, and running forward put both her arms about his neck.

“Oh! my saint, my dear old saint, don’t take it to heart so,” she cried imploringly.

And at the sound of her voice, the voice that was dearer to him than any other in all the world, he lifted his head and smiled up at her, a loving, reassuring smile.

“I am not taking it to heart,” he said. “I was a little bit hipped, that’s all.”

“You don’t think that I acted wrongly?” queried Jill diffidently. “You are not vexed that I declined his offer for baby?”

“Good Lord, no!” he answered vehemently. “I could never have reconciled myself to giving the little beggar up. We managed very well without him before he came, Jill dear; but we couldn’t manage now after once having him, could we? You did what was right as I knew you would. In any serious matter I should invariably leave the decision to you.”

“How good you are to me, Jack,” she whispered gratefully. “How unselfish! It doesn’t seem fair that you should have had to give up so much for me. And now comes this fresh trouble. We have had one or two worries, haven’t we dear?”

“Yes,” he answered brightly, rising, and putting his arm protectingly around her waist, “we have, but fortunately we are both sufficiently self-respecting, and single-purposed to trust one another implicitly, and so the worries don’t affect us very much. Some people would have magnified them into tragedies, but we have managed to shake them off somehow, and come up smiling. So long as we have each other, and health—”

“And Baby,” supplemented Jill. “And Baby, of course; there is nothing much we need worry about. The business manages to keep on its feet somehow; I think one day it may possibly even walk.”

“You are brave and confident,” Jill whispered a little wistfully, “but you will never be well off now dear.”

And St. John with his arm still round her, drew her nearer to him and kissed her upon the lips. The feeling of sadness had passed, a deep happiness and contentment had risen in its place.

“I am well off,” he answered. “No man, whatever his social standing or the size of his banking account, could be better off. I wouldn’t swop you and the boy, Jill, for the untold wealth of the world.”

The End.