Away across the sea, in the Rectory of St. Agnes, a gray-haired father and mother were praying for their boy so far away, and their prayer for him that day was not that he might have wealth, or ease, or fame, or the praise of men, nor that he might always gain his heart's desire—not that at all; they asked for him a greater gift still—that he might always walk in honour's ways.
Jack Smeaton's face was illumined with joy as he read Thursa's telegram.
"Did she send me this? Where is she? I want to see her—who are you?" he asked, all in one breath.
Something in Arthur's face told him who he was. "You are Arthur," he said gently.
Arthur nodded.
The two young men stood looking at each other, but for a full minute neither spoke.
"I have only one question to ask you, Mr. Smeaton," Arthur said at last. "Do you love her?"
"I do," the other man replied, "as God hears me." And Arthur, looking into his clear gray eyes, believed him, and his last hope vanished.
"I feel like a miserable sneak in your presence," Jack Smeaton said humbly. "Upon my word, that enchanting little beauty turned my brain. Isn't she the most bewitching little girl in all the world?"
"I have always thought so," Arthur said quietly. "I have behaved badly to you, Mr.——"