CHAPTER XXXVI

SUNSET AND DAWN

Two years later, on the hill above Stoke Michael, Johanna opened the packet that had come for her by post that morning. Now the contents lay open on her lap, whilst Elizabeth pushed her face against her mother's arm, as the two sat together on the moss-covered bench that caps the hill. "Mother, you aren't cold, are you?" asked Elizabeth, looking up at Johanna's face, when she felt the quiver with which Johanna looked at the photograph she held in her hand. "Who is it?" asked Elizabeth.

"It's somebody I knew many years ago, child."

"Why, that can't be, for it's only a dinky little baby, much, much younger'n me."

"Eh, child, there's folks us knows years and years afore us sets eyes on 'em," said Johanna, peering in the growing dusk at the child's face and bare round limbs that lay, as it were, across her knee.

Then she turned to the note that accompanied it. "Johanna," Wilmot wrote, "I thought you must see our lassie, for she would not have been in the world at all but for you. In one way she is as much yours as mine. Never think I don't know all we've cost you, old Johanna. And, though he never says a word, Tony knows it too. For I can read things in him now that I should never have read in the old days, when I made so many mistakes and saddened so many hearts, my dear. But I don't dwell much on that, for I've so much to do that I cannot brood. And the same

must be true with you. Tony mystifies people here, as he did in Challacombe. His last exploit was to place a row of my old bonnets on our wall, with a notice, 'Please help yourself. A good many people passed that day, but nobody took one, for indeed, Johanna, my bonnets are very shabby, and most people here are better off than we. Tony, of course, says it was due to the frightful taste shown in them."

But the writer could not long keep off the child, and the last sentence ran

"Our baby loved the snow so much last year." Somehow, to Johanna the words called up a picture of what had happened at Challacombe one winter. She remembered Dr. Tony picking up Wilmot on a rare evening of snow, and carrying her across the road from Dashpers to Captain Penrice's house. The little picture stirred a chord of feeling that Johanna had fancied long since deadened, and at the sense of her loneliness she shivered again.

Now once more it was winter, and the red fires of sunset gleamed over leafless trees on the hilltops, and over the blue shadows of the valleys. Below them the Dart lay in gleaming pools of silver light, as she had seen it hundreds of times before, as it had often gleamed in that great time of Johanna's life, when she and the doctor fought the plague. It was a very precious recollection, and of our recollections none can rob us, though the present was often hard to Johanna, prosperous as she was.

Hardest of all, perhaps, when she remembered that some day the child would have to learn the way she came. For the older folk, who bear the scars of battle, dread the clear young eyes that often mark the scars and never note the fruits of victory gained by those same scars. Thus the hidden fear of Johanna's life lay in the question of how Elizabeth would judge her when she knew. So

dreading, she stared into the sunset, while the child, her face reddened by the reflected glory, looked up at her.

"Crying, Mums?"

"No, child; I'm not so sad as that," said Johanna. "I'm only thinking of my other baby, that's in this picture."

For, indeed, the sunset is not cheerless, even if it be the sunset of our own lives, whilst we can still look forward to the human dawn that rises in those other lives that spring from ours, the lives that shall pursue "the things that are more excellent."

WIDDICOMBE

A NOVEL BY M. P. WILLCOCKS Crown 8vo. 6s.

PRESS OPINIONS

Literary World.—"A notable achievement . . . literary charm is to be found in a degree by no means common in 'Widdicombe.' Those who can appreciate close communings with Nature, skilful dissection of human emotions, and word painting by a real artist, will thank us for drawing their attention to this work."

Daily Telegraph.-"Scarcely anything but praise can be given to this forceful book, on every page of which thought and observation are scattered lavishly. The characters live and move for

us..

There are real things in the book." Evening Standard.—"Wonderfully alive, and pulsating with a curious fervour. . . . There are some striking studies of women. . . . A fine, rather unusual novel."

Morning Post.-"The matter is excellent... the characterization both discriminating and subtle."

Globe.-"A novel of unusual promise."

Morning Leader.-"A thoughtful and capable book, containing clear signs of an insight and outlook upon life far removed from the common run.

"

Athenæum.-"A first novel so unegotistical and observant of life as this awakes a pleasant anticipation... it displays an excellent gift of humorous portraiture and a descriptive talent."

Truth.-"There is no doubt that 'Widdicombe' is a first novel of most unusual promise."

Queen.-"An unusually clever book. . . . The freshness of the gift of expression and the originality of the construction of the book come as a welcome relief after the rather stereotyped cleverness of most novels.... For the tout ensemble of the book I have nothing but praise to offer. . . . Miss Willcocks dips deep into human nature. The whole work throbs with the note of human passion." Outlook.-"A work full of outdoor life and vigour.. .. the openair treatment will do many a weary novel reader a world of good."

Vanity Fair.-"An ambitiously conceived and a successful novel. .. Miss Willcocks writes of her country with an evident love of it, and not even the most famous of its many admirers have made it stand up so vividly and delightfully before us."

Scotsman.-"A story.. which is always so artistic that it must please any cultured reader."

Ladies' Field.-"The author's insight into character is remarkable, and the story is told dramatically.... The work has afforded us real pleasure, and we commend it earnestly to the reader's attention."

Manchester Courier.-"A singularly powerful story. . . . A drama worthy of the theatre. . . . admirably written."

Dundee Advertiser." A strong, emotional and picturesque story."