“Who’s there?”
“Mother!” whispered Fred, hoarsely.
There was a cry of joy from the open window; then a clicking noise of flint and steel, a light gleamed blue and faint on the ivy leaves which framed the casement; then a brighter light, and in a few minutes the lower windows were illumined; there was the sound of the bolts being shot, and directly after Fred was in the little hall, clasped in his mother’s arms.
“My boy!” she whispered in a deep voice. Then, in a quick, agitated manner, “Your father?”
“Safe and well, mother.”
“And you have come to stay? Thank God, thank God.”
“No, not to stay,” he cried earnestly, “but to ask you to perform a duty, an act of kindness towards—”
“Some wounded men? Yes, yes, my boy; bring the poor fellows in.”
“No, no, mother, not towards men,” said Fred, holding her tightly to his side, “to one who was once your dearest friend—to her and her child.”
“Lady Markham? Oh, Fred, my boy, they are still dear to me, though this terrible war keeps us apart. But they are there. Oh, why do you stop? Bring them in at once.”