He could not face Josephine, and, lonely as she was, she
did not need him; she had her prayers, her angels, her heaven.
Perhaps Time, the proverbial healer of all wounds, would wash the sense
of guilt from his soul, and then he could come back and speak to
Josephine concerning this new freedom of hers. Then he remembered that
some say that for the wound of guilt Time no healing art. Could he find,
then, other shrift? He did not know. He longed for it sorely, because he
longed to feel fit to return to Josephine. But, after all, what had he
done of which he was ashamed? What was his guilt? Had he felt any
emotion that it was not natural to feel? Had he done anything wrong?
Again he did not know. He sat with head bowed, and felt in dull misery
that O'Shea was a better man than he--more useful and brave, and not
more guilty.
He opened his letters, and found that in his absence no worse mishap had
occurred at home than that his father had been laid up some time with a
bad leg, and that both father and mother had allowed themselves to
worry and fret lest ill should have befallen their son.
Caius embarked on the little steamship that afternoon, and the next noon
found him at home.
The person who met him on the threshold of his father's house was Jim
Hogan. Jim grinned.
"Since you've taken to charities abroad," he said, "I thought I'd begin
at home.
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