As he passed in at the gate he saw the motherly figure of Mrs. Simpkins, a baby on her arm, appear at the window, lifting her hand to draw down the crimson blind.  Before the blind shut in the bright interior, Ronnie caught a glimpse of three curly heads round a small Christmas-tree on the kitchen-table.  Simpkins, in his shirt-sleeves, was lighting the topmost candle.

Ronnie walked on beneath the chestnuts and beeches, up the long sweep of the park drive, a dark lonely figure.

He was very tired; his heart was heavy and sad.

It had been such a cheery glimpse of home, through the lodge window, before the red blind shut it in.  Simpkins was a lucky fellow.  Mrs. Simpkins looked so kind and comfortable, with the baby’s head nestling against her capacious bosom.

Ronnie turned to look back at the brightly-lighted cottage.  The ruddy glow from the blind, fell on the snow.  He wondered whether there was a Upas tree in that humble home.  Surely not!  A Upas tree and a Christmas-tree could hardly find place in the same home.  The tree of Light and Love, would displace the tree of subtle poison.

He turned wearily from the distant light and plodded on.

Then he remembered that, in her last letter, Helen had said:  “Ronnie, we will have a Christmas-tree this Christmas.”  Why had Helen said that?  He had fully intended to ask her, but had not thought of it from that hour to this.

Possibly it was just a wish to yield to his whim in the matter.  Perhaps she was planning to have all the little Simpkins kids up to the house.

Well, if Helen spent Christmas with the Dalmains, she would come in for little Geoff’s Christmas-tree, which would certainly be a beauty.

He plodded heavily on.  He felt extraordinarily lonely.  Would Helen miss him?  Hardly.  You do not miss a selfish person.  He would miss Helen—­horribly; but then Helen was not selfish.  She was quite the most unselfish person he had ever known.

He went over in his mind all the times when Helen had instantly given up a thing at his wish.  Amongst others, he remembered how, on that spring morning so long ago, when he had told her of his new book and of his plan, she had been wanting to tell him something, yet he had allowed her interest to remain untold, when she threw herself heart and soul into his.  He began to wonder what it could have been; and whether it would be too late to ask her now.

At last he reached the house, and felt slightly cheered to see lights and fires within.  He had almost anticipated darkness.

Mrs. Blake herself opened the door, resplendent in black satin; lavender ribbons in her lace cap.

“La, sir!” she said.  “Fancy you walking from the station!  You must please to excuse Simpkins being out.  He has some Christmasing on at the lodge, for his fam’ly.”

“I know,” said Ronnie.  “I saw a Christmas-tree as I passed.  I shall not require Simpkins.  Blake, is there a fire in the studio?”