Phœbe came to the conclusion that Cecily was persuaded of the cessation of his attachment, and was endeavouring to be thankful, and to accustom herself to it. After the first, she did not hide herself to any marked degree; and, probably to silence her aunt, allowed that lady to take her on one of the grand Monday expeditions, when all the tolerably sound visiting population of Hyères were wont to meet, to the number of thirty or forty, and explore the scenery. Exquisite as were the views, these were not romantic excursions, the numbers conducing to gossip and chatter, but there were some who enjoyed them the more in consequence; and Mervyn, who had been loudest in vituperation of his first, found the present perfectly delightful, although the chief of his time was spent in preventing Mrs. Holmby’s cross-grained donkey from lying down to roll, and administering to the lady the chocolate drops that he carried for Bertha’s sustenance; Cecily, meantime, being far before with his sisters, where Mrs. Holmby would gladly have sent him if bodily terror would have permitted her to dismiss her cavalier.

Miss Charlecote and Phœbe, being among the best and briskest of the female walkers, were the first to enter the town, and there, in the Place des Palmiers, looking about him as if he were greatly amazed at himself, they beheld no other than the well-known figure of Sir John Raymond, standing beside the Major, who was sunning himself under the palm-trees.

‘Miss Charlecote, how are you? How d’ye do, Miss Fulmort? Is your sister quite well again? Where’s my little niece?’

‘Only a little way behind with Bertha.’

‘Well, we never thought to meet in such a place, did we? What a country of stones I have come over to-day, enough to break the heart of a farmer; and the very sheep are no better than goats! Vineyards? What they call vineyards are old black stumps that ought to be grubbed up for firewood!’

‘Nay, I was struck by the wonderful cultivation of every available inch of ground. It speaks well for the Provençals, if we judge by the proverb, “Autant vaut l’homme que vaut sa terre.”’

‘Ah! there she comes;’ and he hastened to join Cecily, while the deserted Bertha, coming up to her sister, muttered, ‘Wretched girl! I hear she had written to him to fetch her home. That was what made her stay so quietly, was it?’

No one could accuse Mervyn of indifference who saw the blank look that overspread his face on hearing of Sir John’s arrival, but he said not a word, only hurried away to dress for the table d’hôte. The first notice the anxious ladies had that the tedious dinner was broken up, was a knock at their door, and Cecily’s entrance, looking exceedingly white, and speaking very low. ‘I am come to wish you good-bye,’ she said. ‘Uncle John has been so kind as to come for me, and I believe we shall set out to-morrow.’

Maria alone could dare to shriek out, ‘Oh! but you promised to show me how to make a crown of my pink heaths, and I have been out with Lieschen, and gathered such beauties!’

‘If you will come with me to my room I will show you while I pack up,’ said Cecily, reducing Bertha to despair by this most effectual barrier to confidence; but she entreated leave to follow, since seeing Cecily playing with Maria was better than not seeing her at all.

After some time, Mervyn came in, flushed and breathless, and Honor kindly made an excuse for leaving him alone with Phœbe. After diligently tossing a book from one hand to the other for some minutes, he observed, sotto voce, ‘That’s a more decent old fellow than I gave him credit for.’

‘Who, Sir John?’

‘Aye.’

And that was the whole result of the tête-à-tête. He was in no mood for questions, and marched out of the room for a moonlight cigar. Phœbe only remained with the conviction that something had happened.

Miss Charlecote was more fortunate. She had met the Baronet in the passage, and was accosted by him with, ‘Do you ever do such a thing as take a turn on that terrace?’

It was a welcome invitation, and in no more time than it took to fetch a shawl, the two old friends were pacing the paved terrace together.

‘Well, what do you think of him?’ began Sir John. ‘There must be more good in him than I thought.’

‘Much more than I thought.’

‘He has been speaking to me, and I can’t say but that I was sorry for him, though why it should have gone so hard with so sensible and good a girl as Cecily to give up such a scamp, I never could guess! I told George that seeing what I saw of him, and knowing what I knew, I could think it nothing better than a sacrifice to give her to him!’

‘Exactly what I thought!’

‘After the way he had used her, too—talking nonsense to her, and then playing fast and loose, trying his luck with half the young ladies in London, and then fancying she would be thankful to him as soon as he wanted a wife to keep house! Poor child, that would not have weighed with her a moment though—it puts me out of patience to know how fond she is of him—but for his scampishness, which made it a clear duty to refuse him. Very well she behaved, poor thing, but you see how she pined away—though her mother tells me that not a fretful word was ever heard from her, as active and patient and cheerful as ever. Then the Holmbys took her abroad, the only thing to save her health, but I never trusted the woman, and when by and by she writes to her father that Fulmort was coming, and her aunt would not take her away, “George,” I said, “never mind; I’ll go at once, and bring her home—she shall not be kept there to be torn to pieces between her feelings and her duty.” And now I am come, I declare I don’t know what to be at—I should think nothing of it if the lad only talked of reforming—but he looks so downcast, and owns so honestly that we were quite right, and then that excellent little sister of his is so fond of him, and you have stood his company this whole year—that I declare I think he must be good for something! Now you who have looked on all his life, just say what you think of him—such a way as he went on in last year, too—the crew that he got about him—’

‘Phœbe thinks that was the consequence of his disappointment.’

‘A man that could bring such a lot into the same house with that sister of his, had no business to think of Cecily.’

‘He has suffered for it, and pretty severely, and I do think it has done him good. You must remember that he had great disadvantages.’

‘Which didn’t hinder his brother from turning out well.’

‘Robert went to a public school—’ and there she perceived she was saying something awkward, but Sir John half laughed, and assented.

‘Quite right, Miss Charlecote; private pupils are a delusion? George never had one without a screw loose about him. Parish priests were never meant for tutors—and I’ve told my boy, Charlie, that the one thing I’ll never consent to is his marrying on pupils—and doing two good things by halves. It has well nigh worried his uncle to death, and Cecily into the bargain.’

‘Robert was younger, and the elders were all worse managed. Besides, Mervyn’s position, as it was treated, made him discontented and uncomfortable; and this attachment, which he was too—too—I can find no word for it but contemptible—to avow, must have preyed on his temper and spirits all the time he was trying to shake it off. He was brought up to selfishness, and nothing but what he underwent last year could have shaken him out of it.’

‘Then you think he is shaken out of it?’

‘Where Bertha is concerned I see that he is—therefore I should hope it with his wife.’

‘Well, well, I suppose what must be must be. Not that I have the least authority to say anything, but I could not help telling the poor fellow thus much—that if he went on steadily for a year or so, and continued in the same mind, I did not see why he should not ask my brother and Cecily to reconsider it. Then it will be for them to decide, you know.’

For them! As if Sir John were not in character as well as name the guiding head of the family.

‘And now,’ he added, ‘you will let me come to your rooms this evening, for Mrs. Holmby is in such displeasure with me, that I shall get nothing but black looks. Besides, I want to see a little more of that nice girl, his sister.’

‘Ah! Sir John, if ever you do consent, it will be more than half for love of Phœbe!’

‘Well, for a girl like that to be so devoted to him—her brother though he be—shows there must be more in him than meets the eye. That’s just the girl that I would not mind John’s marrying.’

CHAPTER XXV

Turn again, Whittington!

—Bow Bells

May had come round again before Robert Fulmort stood waiting at the Waterloo Station to welcome the travellers, who had been prohibited from putting Bertha’s restored health to the test of east winds. It was a vista of happy faces that he encountered as he looked into the carriage window, yet the first questions and answers were grave and mournful.

‘Is Mr. Henderson still alive?’ asked Honora.

‘No, he sank rapidly, and died on Sunday week. I was at the funeral on Saturday.’

‘Right; I am glad you went. I am sorry I was away.’

‘It was deeply felt. Nearly all the clergy in the archdeaconry, and the entire parish, were present.’

‘Who is taking care of the parish?’

‘Charlecote Raymond has been coming over for the Sundays, and giving great satisfaction.’

‘I say, Robert, where’s the Bannerman carriage? Phœbe is to be victimized there—more’s the pity,’ interposed Mervyn.

‘There is their brougham. I meant to drive to Albury-street with her,’ said Robert, gazing at his brother as if he scarcely knew him without the characteristic knitting of the brow under a grievance, the scowl, or the half-sneering smile; and with the cleared and lightened air that he had worn ever since that little spark of hope had been left to burn and shine undamped by dissipation or worldly policy. Bertha also was changed. She had grown tall and womanly, her looks beyond her age, and if her childish vivacity were gone, the softened gravity became her much better. It was Phœbe’s report, however, for which he chiefly longed, and he was soon seated beside her on the way to Albury-street, while the others betook themselves Citywards.

‘So, Phœbe, it is all right, and you are satisfied?’

‘Satisfied, grateful, thankful to the utmost,’ said Phœbe, fervently. ‘I think I never was so happy as all through the latter part of the journey.’

‘You think well of Bertha?’

‘I cannot call her restored, for she is far more than she was before. That meeting with Cecily Raymond did for her what we could not do, and she is growing to be more than we knew how to wish for.’

‘Her spirits?’

‘Never high, and easily shaken. Her nerves are not strong yet, and she will never, I fear, be quite girlishly careless and merry, but she is grave and sweet. She does not shrink from people now, and when I saw her among other girls at Paris, she seemed older, much deeper, and altogether superior.’

‘Does she think seriously?’

‘She thinks and reads, but it is not easy to guess what she thinks, for she keeps silence, and has happily quite left off arguing with Miss Charlecote. I believe Cecily has great influence over her, and I think she will talk a great deal to Miss Fennimore. Robin, do you think we could have dear Miss Fennimore again?’

‘I do not know what Mr. Parsons would say to you. As you know, she told him that she wanted to do the most useful work he could trust to her, so he has made her second mistress at the day-school for his tradesmen’s daughters; and what they would do without her I cannot think!’

‘She must have very insufficient pay.’

‘Yes, but I think she is glad of that, and she had saved a good deal.’

‘I give you notice that I shall try hard to get her, if Mr. Crabbe will only let us be as we were before. Do you think there is any hope for us?’

‘I cannot tell. I suspect that he will not consent to your going home till Mervyn is married; and Augusta wants very much to have you, for the season at least.’

‘Mervyn and Miss Charlecote both say I ought to see a little of the London world, and she promises to keep Maria and Bertha till we see our way. I should not like them to be without me anywhere else. You have not told me of poor Bevil. You must have seen him often.’

‘Yes, he clings very much to me, poor fellow, and is nearly as much cast down as at first. He has persuaded himself that poor Juliana always continued what he thought her when they met in their youth. Perhaps she had the germs of it in her, but I sometimes hardly know which way to look when he is talking about her, and then I take shame to myself for the hard judgments I cannot put away even now!’

‘Poor Juliana!’ said Phœbe, saddened by her own sense that the difficulties of her present position were lessened by the removal of this sister. ‘And little Elizabeth?’

‘She is a nice little thing, and her father hardly lets her out of his sight. I have sometimes speculated whether he might not ask you to keep house for him, but last time I saw him, I fancied that he was inclined to hold aloof from you.’

‘I had rather he did not ask us,’ said Phœbe.

‘Why so?’

‘Because I am afraid Bertha would not look up to him if she lived with him,’ said Phœbe.

Robert smiled, having himself become conscious of that weakness in his good brother-in-law which Phœbe felt, but did not name.

‘And now, Phœbe,’ said Robert, suddenly changing the subject, ‘I have something for you to do; I want you to call on Miss Sandbrook.’

On her astonished look, he explained that he had made it his business frequently to see Owen Sandbrook’s child, and of late to give it some religious teaching. While thus engaged, he had been surprised by the entrance of Lucilla, looking wretchedly ill and exhausted, and though she had rallied her spirits after the first moment, talked of having come up from Essex for a day’s holiday of shopping and seeing her nephew, and had inquired eagerly and warmly for Miss Charlecote, he had been sufficiently uneasy about her to go afterwards to Mrs. Murrell, from whom he had learnt that she had avowed having consulted a physician in the morning, and had procured her address.

‘And now,’ said Robert, ‘I want you, with whom she has never quarrelled, to call on her as an old friend just come into her neighbourhood, and find out what was the doctor’s opinion. I am sure she is destroying herself.’

The whole was said with perfect simplicity, without shrinking from Phœbe’s eye, as though he had absolutely forgotten what sentiments he had once entertained; and Phœbe could, neither in kindness nor humanity, refuse to be the means of reopening communication with the voluntary exile. She proposed to write and offer a call, but Robert, fearing to rouse the old perverse pride, recommended that there should be no preparation. Indeed, the chances of an independent expedition seemed likely to be scanty, for Lady Bannerman pounced on her sister as a truant bond-slave, who, when captured, was to be useful all day, and go to parties all night.

‘I have told all my friends that I was going to introduce my sister, and what expectations you have,’ she said. ‘See, here are two cards for to-morrow night, Lady Jane Hewett and Mrs. Gosling, the young widow that I want Mervyn to meet, you know. Clear £5000 a year, and such a charming house. Real first-rate suppers; not like Lady Jane’s bread-and-butter and cat-lap, as Sir Nicholas says, just handed round. We would never go near the place, but as I said to Sir Nicholas, any sacrifice for my sister; and she has a son, you know, a fine young man; and if we manage well, we shall be in time for Carrie Gosling’s supper. So mind that, Phœbe, and don’t get engaged to too many dances.’

‘Is there to be dancing?’

‘Most likely. I hope you have something to wear.’

‘I provided myself at Paris, thank you.’

‘Not mourning, I trust! That will never do! Nobody thinks of mourning for a sister more than six months, and it makes me so low to think of poor Juliana, and this horrid complaint being in the family. It is quite a duty to keep one’s spirits up. But there’s Robert always so lugubrious; and poor Sir Bevil looks as deplorable, and comes up to town with that poor little girl all in crape, and won’t eat any luncheon! I declare it gave me such a turn that I was obliged to have my little cordial before I could swallow a mouthful! And now you come in black! It is quite provoking! You must and shall get some colours to-morrow.’

‘Thank you, what I have is white and lilac.’

On which neutral ground Phœbe took her stand, and the French style and fashion so impressed Augusta’s maid, that she forced her ladyship to accept even simplicity as ‘the thing,’ and to sink back rebuked for the barbarism of hinting at the enlivenment of pink ribbons or scarlet flowers.

Though thus fortified against shopping on her own account, liberty even to go to see her sisters was denied her, in Augusta’s infinite disgust at the locality, and consideration for the horses. She was forced to be contented with the report of Mervyn, who came to dinner and to go to the evening parties, and who spoke of the girls as well and happy; Maria ‘in her native element’ at the infant school, and both in a perfect rapture at receiving Miss Fennimore, whom their hostess had asked to spend the evening in Woolstone-lane.

Mervyn professed that he came entirely to see Phœbe’s debut in her Parisian costume, and amused himself maliciously with endeavouring to delay the start from Lady Jane’s till too late for Mrs. Gosling’s supper; but Phœbe, who did not wish to enhance the sacrifice, would not abet him, and positively, as he declared, aided Augusta in her wild goose chase.

He contrived to have a good deal of conversation with Phœbe in the course of the evening, and she heard from him that old Crabbe was more crusty than ever, and would not hear of his taking his sisters home, but, said he, that mattered the less, considering that now they would be able to be at the parsonage.

‘The parsonage?’

‘What! did you not know the living was in Miss Charlecote’s gift?’

‘Do you mean that she has offered it to Robert?’

‘Yes—no—at least she has told me of her intentions. Highly proper in the old girl, isn’t it? They will settle it to-night, of course. I’ll have the grounds laid out, and make quite a pretty modern place of it. It has quite taken a weight off my mind to know he is so well provided for.’

‘It will make us all very happy; but I think he will be sorry for St. Matthew’s, too.’

‘Oh! parsons think nothing of changes. He can appoint his own successor, and I’ll not let things die away. And now, Phœbe, is there anything you want to do? I will not have Augusta tie you by the leg. I will look out a lady’s horse to-morrow, and come to ride with you; or if you want to do anything, you can have the brougham any day.’

‘Thank you; there is one thing I want very much to do,’ and she explained.

‘Ha!’ said Mervyn, ‘a romantic meeting. If I remember right, Mr. Robin used to be much smitten with that little thing. Don’t reckon too much on the parsonage, Phœbe.’

‘What are we to do if both brothers turn us out?’ smiled Phœbe.

‘Don’t talk of that. I should be glad enough to get you in—and I am far enough from the other thing yet.’

So Phœbe obtained the use of the brougham for the next day and set off for her long Essex drive, much against Augusta’s will, and greatly wondering what it would produce; compassionate of course for poor Lucilla, yet not entirely able to wish that Robert should resign the charge for which he was so eminently fitted, even for the sake of Hiltonbury and home. Lucy must be altered, indeed, if he would not be happier without her.

Phœbe had written a few lines, saying that hearing that Lucy was so near, she could not help begging to see her. This she sent in with her card, and after a little delay, was invited to come in. Lucilla met her at the top of the stairs, and at first Phœbe only felt herself, clasped, clung to, kissed, fondled with a sudden gasping, tearful eagerness. Then as if striving to recall the ordinary tone, Lucilla exclaimed—‘There—I beg your pardon for such an obstreperous greeting, but I am a famished creature here, you see, and I did not expect such kindness. Luckily some of my pupils are driving out with their mamma, and I have sent the others to the nurse. Now then, take off your bonnet, let me see you; I want to look at a home face, and you are as fresh and as innocent as if not a year had passed over you.’

Lucilla fervently kissed her again, and then holding her hand, gazed at her as if unwilling that either should break the happy silence. Meantime Phœbe was shocked to see how completely Robert’s alarms were justified by Lucy’s appearance. The mere absence of the coquettish ringlets made a considerable difference, and the pale colour of the hair, as it was plainly braided, increased the wanness of her appearance. The transparent complexion had lost the lovely carnation of the cheek, but the meandering veins of the temples and eyelids were painfully apparent; and with the eyes so large and clear as to be more like veronicas than ever, made the effect almost ghastly, together with excessive fragility of the form, and the shadowy thinness of the hand that held Phœbe’s. Bertha’s fingers, at her weakest, had been more substantial than these small things, which had, however, as much character and force in their grasp as ever.

‘Lucy, I am sure you are ill! How thin you are!’

‘Well, then, cod-liver oil is a base deception! Never mind that—let me hear of Honor—are you with her?’

‘No, my sisters are, but I am with Augusta.’

‘Then you do not come from her?’

‘No; she does not know.’

‘You excellent Phœbe; what have you done to keep that bonny honest face all this time to refresh weary eyes—being a little heroine, too. Well, but the Honor—the old sweet Honey—is she her very self?’

‘Indeed, I hope so; she has been so very kind to us.’

‘And found subjects in you not too cross-grained for her kindness to be palatable! Ah! a good hard plunge into the world teaches one what one left in the friendly ship! Not that mine has been a hard one. I am not one of the pathetic governesses of fiction. Every one has been kinder to me than I am worth—But, oh! to hear myself called Lucy again!’—and she hid her face on Phœbe’s shoulder in another access of emotion.

‘You used not to like it.’

‘My Cilly days were over long ago. Only one person ever used to call me Cilla;’ and she paused, and went on afresh—‘So it was for Bertha’s sake and Mervyn’s that Honor escorted you abroad. So much Robert told me; but I don’t understand it yet. It had haunted me the whole winter that Robert was the only Mr. Fulmort she could nurse; and if he told you I was upset, it was that I did not quite know whether he were ghost or body when I saw him there in the old place.’

‘No, he only told me you were looking very ill; and indeed—’

‘I could not ask him what concatenation made Honor take Mervyn under her wing, like a hen hovering a vulture.’

‘It would be a long story,’ said Phœbe; ‘but Bertha was very ill, and Mervyn much out of health; and we were in great distress for an escort. I think it was the kindest thing ever done, and the most successful.’

‘Has it been a comfort to her? Owen’s letters must be, I am sure. He will come home this autumn, as soon as he has done laying out his railway, and then I shall get him to beg leave for me to make a little visit to Hiltonbury before we go out to Canada. I could not go out without a good word from her. She and Mr. Prendergast are all that remains of the old life. I say, Phœbe, did you hear of those cousins of mine!’

‘It was one of the reasons I wished to see you. I thought you might like to hear of them.’

‘You saw them!’

‘Miss Charteris called on us at Nice. She—oh, Lucy! you will be surprised—she is a Plymouth sister!’

‘Rashe!—old Rashe! We reverse the old transformation, butterflies into grubs!’ cried Lucy, with somewhat spasmodic laughter. ‘Tell me how the wonder came about.’

‘I know little about it,’ said Phœbe. ‘Miss Charlecote thought most likely it was the first earnest kind of religion that presented itself when she was craving for some such help.’

‘Did Honor make such a liberal remark? There, I am sorry I said it; but let me hear of dear old Rashe. Has it made her very grim?’

‘You know it is not an embellishing dress, and she did look gaunt and haggard; but still somehow we liked her better than ever before; and she is so very good and charitable.’

‘Ha! Nice is a grand place for colporteurs and tracts. She would be a shining specimen there, and dissipation, religious or otherwise, old Rashe must have.’

‘Not only in that line,’ said Phœbe, suppressing a smile at the truth of the surmise, ‘but she is all kindness to sick English—’

‘She tried to convert you all!—confess it. Rashe converting dear old Honor! Oh! of all comical conjunctions!’

‘Miss Charlecote hushed it down,’ said Phœbe; ‘and, indeed, nobody could be with her and think that she needed rousing to religious thoughts.’

‘By this attempt on Honor, I fear she has not succeeded with Lolly, whom poor Owen used to call an Eastern woman with no soul.’

‘She does everything for Mrs. Charteris—dresses her, works for her—I do believe cooks for her. They live a strange, rambling life.’

‘I have heard Lolly plays as deeply as Charles, does not she? All Castle Blanch mortgaged—would be sold, but that Uncle Kit is in the entail! It breaks one’s heart to hear it! They all live on generous old Ratia, I suppose.’

‘I believe she pays the bills when they move. We were told that it was a beautiful thing to see how patiently and resolutely she goes on bearing with them and helping them, always in hopes that at last they may turn to better things.’

Lucy was much touched. ‘Poor Rashe!’ she said; ‘there was something great in her. I have a great mind to write to her.’

They diverged into other subjects, but every minute she became more open and confidential; and as the guarded reserve wore off, Phœbe contrived to lead to the question of her spirits and health, and obtained a fuller answer.

‘Till you try, Phœbe, you can’t guess the wear of living with minds that have got nothing in them but what you have put in yourself. There seems to be a fur growing over one’s intellects for want of something to rub against.’

‘Miss Fennimore must often have felt that with us.’

‘No, you were older and besides, you have some originality in a sober way; and don’t imagine Miss Fennimore had the sore heart at the bottom—the foolishness that took to moaning after home as soon as it had cast it off past recall!’

‘Oh, Lucy! not past recall!’

‘Not past pardon, I am trying to hope. At least, there are some people who, the more unpardonable one is, pardon the more readily. When Owen comes home, I mean to try.’

‘Ah! I saw you had been going through a great deal.’

‘No, no, don’t charge my looks on sentiment,’ said Cilla, hastily; ‘there’s plenty to account for them besides. One never falls into those foibles when one is quite strong.’

‘Then you have been unwell?’

‘Not to the point of giving in. Oh, no! “Never say die” was always my motto, you know.’

‘To what point, dear Lucy?’

‘To that of feeling as if the entire creation was out of joint—not one child here and there, but everybody was cross; and I could not walk with the children, and my bones ached, and all that sort of thing.’

‘You had advice?’

‘Yes, I thought it economical to patch myself up in time; so I asked for a holiday to go to the doctor.’

‘Well?’

‘He did after the nature of doctors; poked me about, and asked if there were decline in the family;’ and in spite of the smile, the great blue eyes looked ghastly; ‘and he forbade exertion, and ordered good living and cod-liver oil.’

‘Then surely you should be taking care.’

‘So I am. These are very good-natured people, and I’m a treasure of a governess, you know. I have refections ten times a day, and might swim in port wine, and the little Swiss bonne walks the children, and gives them an awful accent, which their mamma thinks the correct thing.’

‘Change—rest—you should have them.’

‘I shall, when Owen comes. It is summer-time, and I shall hold on till then, when it will be plenty of time to see whether this is nonsense.’

‘Whether what is?’

‘About my lungs. Don’t look horrified. He could only trace the remains of a stupid old cold, and if it were more, I know of no fact of so little moment to anybody.’

‘You should not say that, Lucy; it is wrong and cruel.’

‘It is your fault; I did not want to have talked of it, and in good time here comes half my flock. Edie, Reggie, Flo, come and show Miss Fulmort what my torments are.’

They ran in, apparently on excellent terms with her, and greeted her guest without shyness; but after a little whispering and shoving the youngest spoke. ‘Edie and Reggie want to know if she is the lady that put out the light?’

‘Ah! you heroine,’ said Lucy, ‘you don’t know how often I have told of your doughty deeds! Ay, look at her, she is the robber-baffler; though now I look at her I don’t quite believe it myself.’

‘But it is true?’ asked the little girl, puzzled.

‘Tell us all the story,’ added the boy.

‘Yes; tell us,’ said Lucilla. ‘I read all your evidence, so like yourself as it was, but I want to know where you were sleeping.’

Phœbe found her present audience strangely more embarrassing than the whole assize court, perhaps because there the solemn purpose swallowed up the sense of admiration; but she laughed at last at the boy’s disappointment at the escape of the thieves; ‘he would have fired a pistol through the keyhole and shot them!’ When she rose to go, the children entreated her to stay and be seen by the others, but this she was glad to escape, though Lucilla clung to her with a sort of anguish of longing, yet stifled affection, that would have been most painful to witness, but for the hopes for her relief.

Phœbe ordered her brother’s carriage in time to take her to breakfast in Woolstone-lane the next morning, and before ten o’clock Honor had heard the account of the visit in Essex. Tearfully she thanked the trusty reconnoitrer as for a kindness to herself, dwelling on the tokens of relenting, yet trembling at the tidings of the malady. To write and recall her child to her motherly nursing was the foremost thought in her strange medley of grief and joy, hope and fear.