staunch and faithful. Never had he uttered his daughter's name in
all these months, nor was there a soul in the community possessed
of the hardihood to inquire about her or to sympathize with him.

It was a fierce, cruel night in March that saw the return of Alix.
A fine, biting snow blew across the wide, open farmlands; the beasts
of the field were snugly under cover; no man stirred abroad unless
driven by necessity; the cold, wind-swept roads were deserted. So
no one witnessed the return of Alix Crown and her husband. They came
out of the bleak, unfriendly night and knocked at David Windom's
door. There were lights in his sitting-room windows; through them
they could see the logs blazing in the big fireplace, beside which
sat the lonely, brooding figure of Alix's father. It was late,--nearly
midnight,--and the house was still. Old Maria Bliss and the one
other servant had been in bed for hours. The farmhands slept in
a cottage Windom had erected years before, acting upon his wife's
suggestion. It stood some two or three hundred yards from the main
house.

A dog in the stables barked, first in anger and then with unmistakable
joy. David's favourite, a big collie, sprang up from his place on
the rug before the fire and looked uneasily toward the door opening
onto the hall. Then came a rapping at the front door. The collie
growled softly as he moved toward the door. He sniffed the air in
the hall and suddenly began to whine joyously, wagging his tail as
he bounded back and forth between his master and the door.

David Windom knew then that his daughter had come home.

He sprang to his feet and took two long strides toward the door.