floor level. As MacRae set foot on the lower step a girl came out on the
porch.

MacRae stopped. The girl did not see him. Her eyes were fixed
questioningly on the sea that stretched away beyond the narrow mouth of
the Cove. As she looked she drew one hand wearily across her forehead,
tucking back a vagrant strand of dusky hair. MacRae watched her a
moment. The quick, pleased smile that leaped to his face faded to
soberness.

"Hello, Dolly," he said softly.

She started. Her dark eyes turned to him, and an inexpressible relief
glowed in them. She held up one hand in a gesture that warned
silence,--and by that time MacRae had come up the steps to her side and
seized both her hands in his. She looked at him speechlessly, a curious
passivity in her attitude. He saw that her eyes were wet.

"What's wrong, Dolly?" he asked. "Aren't you glad to see Johnny come
marching home? Where's dad?"

"Glad?" she echoed. "I never was so glad to see any one in my life. Oh,
Johnny MacRae, I wish you'd come sooner. Your father's a sick man. We've
done our best, but I'm afraid it's not good enough."

"He's in bed, I suppose," said MacRae. "Well, I'll go in and see him.
Maybe it'll cheer the old boy up to see me back."

"He won't know you," the girl murmured. "You mustn't disturb him just
now, anyway. He has fallen into a doze. When he comes out of that he'll