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little home noises which she had seldom noticed now spoke a potent language.

She could identify each neighbour’s car and every tradesman’s van. She could see the baker’s expression of concentration as he hurried up the path, while Ginger eyed him disdainfully from his perch on the verandah rail. She could see the tall pines in the distance and Mount Egmont beyond; she could see the group of pungas in the gully.

It was not so dark here, at home.

She heard Patricia enter the house by the back door; heard the light the gas beneath the kettle in preparation for morning tea; heard her straighten a corner of a rug as she crossed the breakfast room; heard her cross the hall and enter the room in which she lay.

Grace turned her head expectantly as Patricia set the letters down upon the table near the window.

“Were there any?” she asked.

“Lots,” answered Patricia.

“Any for me?”

“I don’t think so. Some of the addresses are hard to decipher, but I think they are all for Mr. Harley.”

“Of course. I am dead, to all intents and purposes.”

Paricia looked pityingly at the woman on the bed and was surprised to see that she smiled.

“Grace———”

“That wasn’t a complaint, Pat,” said Grace gently. “I’m happy to be home again—even as I am. Pat, dear———”

“Yes?”

“Do you think it will hurt me if you call him Jimmy?”

Patricia did not answer. She spread the wet letters upon the window-ledge to dry in the sun.

“It won’t,” Grace assured her. “In fact, I would rather you call him Jimmy. You used to call him