mind told him remorselessly that it was true.
He had always sensed that Helen’s feeling for him was not as strong as his for her. But that she had loved Dawes he had never dreamed. Yet now he remembered Dawes’ frequent visits, the odd silences between him and Helen. He remembered a thousand trifles that spoke of the love which these two had cherished for each other.
What was he, John Woodford, to do? Walk in upon them and tell them that they had been premature in counting him dead, that he had come back to claim his position in life and his wife again?
He couldn’t do it! If Helen during those years had wavered in the least in her loyalty to him, he would have had less compunction. But in the face of those years of silent, uncomplaining life with him, he couldn’t now reappear to her and blast her new-found happiness and blacken her name.
Woodford laughed a little, bitterly. He was then to be an Enoch Arden from the tomb. A strange role, surely, yet it was the only one open to him.
What was he to do? He couldn’t let Helen know now that he was alive, couldn’t return to the home that had been his. Yet he must go somewhere. Where?
With a sudden leap of the heart he thought of lack, his son. He could at least go to Jack, let his son know that he was living. Jack at least would be overjoyed to see him, and would keep the fact of his return secret from his mother.
John Woodford, with that thought rekindling a little his numbed feelings, started back through the trees toward the street. Where he had approached the house but minutes before with eager steps, he stole away now like a thief fearful of being observed.
He reached the street and started across the blocks toward the cottage of his son. Few were abroad, for the cold seemed increasing and it was well past midnight. Woodford mechanically rubbed his stiffened hands as he hurried along.
He came to his son’s neat little white cottage, and felt relief as he saw lights from its lower windows also. He had feared that no one would be up. He crossed the frozen lawn to the lighted windows, intent on seeing if Jack were there and if he were alone.
He peered in, as he had done at his own home. Jack was sitting at a little desk and his young wife was perched on the arm of his chair and was listening as he explained something to her from a sheet of writing on the desk.
John Woodford, pressing his face against the cold window-pane, could hear Jack’s words.
“You see, Dorothy, we can just make it by adding our savings to Dad’s insurance money," lack was saying.
“Oh, Jack!" cried Dorothy happily. "And it’s what you’ve wanted so long, a little business of your own!"
Jack nodded. "It won’t be very big to start with, but I’ll make it grow, all right. This is the chance I’ve been hoping for and I’m sure going to make the most of it.
“Of course," he said, his face sobering a little, "it’s too bad about Dad going like that. But seeing that he did die, the insurance money solves our problems of getting started. Now you take the over-head—" he said, and began unreeling a string of figures to the intent Dorothy.
John Woodford drew slowly back from the window. He felt more dazed and bewildered than ever. He had forgotten the insurance he had carried, which he had intended to give Jack his start. But of course, he saw now, it had
