"That is all then? No other message? He will understand, our Jerry?"

And Janie had smiled--rather a terrible small smile.

"Oh, yes," she told him. "He will understand. It is the word that he
is waiting for, you see."

"I see." But there had been a grave wonder in his voice.

"Would it----" she had framed the words as carefully as though it
were a strange tongue that she was speaking--"would it be possible
to buy his machine? He wouldn't want any one else to fly it."

"Little Janie, never fear. The man does not live who shall fly poor
Peg again. Smashed to kindling-wood and burned to ashes, she has
taken her last flight to the heaven for good and brave birds of war.
Not enough was left of her to hold in your two hands."

"I'm glad. Then that's all--isn't it? And thank you for coming."

"It is I who thank you. What was hard as death you have made easy. I
had thought the lady to whom Jeremy Langdon gave his heart the
luckiest creature ever born--now I think him that luckiest one." The
grave grace with which he had bent to kiss her hand made of the
formal salutation an accolade--"My homage to you, Jerry's Janie!" A
quick salute, and he had turned on his heel, swinging off down the
flagged path with that swift, easy stride--past the sun-dial--past
the lily-pond--past the beech-trees--gone! For hours and hours after
he had passed out of sight she had sat staring after him, her hands
lying quite still in her lap--staring, staring--they had found her