“My boy!” was all she said; and then, “My boy—­my little boy!”

And after a while, “Mother,” said he, and took her face between his strong young hands, and looked into her happy eyes, “mother dear, I ha? been to London town; I ha’ been to the palace, and I ha’ seen the Queen; but, mother,” he said, with a little tremble in his voice, for all he smiled so bravely, “I ha’ never seen the place where I would rather be than just where thou art, mother dear!”

The soft gray twilight gathered in the little garden; far-off voices drifted faintly from the town.  The day was done.  Cool and still, and filled with gentle peace, the starlit night came down from the dewy hills; and Cicely lay fast asleep in Simon Attwood’s arms.