"You don't say that was your son who held forth yesterday! I thought his voice had a trick of yours--but then I thought you would have held by old Cambridge."

"What could I do?" said Dr. May deprecatingly; "the boy would go and get a Balliol scholarship--"

"Why! the lad is a genius! a poet--no mistake about it! but I scarcely thought you could have one of such an age."

"Of his age! His brother is in Holy Orders--one of his sisters is married. There's for you, Spencer!"

"Bless me, Dick! I thought myself a young man!"

"What! with hair of that colour?" said Dr. May, looking at his friend's milk-white locks.

"Bleached by that frightful sickly season at Poonshedagore, when I thought I was done for. But you! you--the boy of the whole lot! You think me very disrespectful to your father," added he, turning to Ethel, "but you see what old times are."

"I know," said Ethel, with a bright look.

"So you were in the theatre yesterday," continued Dr. May; "but there is no seeing any one in such a throng. How long have you been in England?"

"A fortnight. I went at once to see my sister, at Malvern; there I fell in with Rudden, the man I was with in New Guinea. He was going up to be made an honorary doctor, and made me come with him."

"And where are you bound for?" as the train showed signs of a halt.

"For London. I meant to hunt up Mat. Fleet, and hear of you, and other old friends."

"Does he expect you?"

"No one expects me. I am a regular vagabond."

"Come home with us," said Dr. May, laying his hand on his arm. "I cannot part with you so soon. Come, find your luggage. Take your ticket for Gloucester."

"So suddenly! Will it not be inconvenient?" said he, looking tempted, but irresolute.

"Oh, no, no; pray come!" said Ethel eagerly. "We shall be so glad."

He looked his courteous thanks, and soon was with them en-route for Stoneborough.

Ethel's thoughts were diverted from all she had left at Oxford. She could not but watch those two old friends. She knew enough of the traveller to enter into her father's happiness, and to have no fears is of another Sir Matthew.

They had been together at Stoneborough, at Cambridge, at Paris, at Edinburgh, always linked in the closest friendship; but, by Dr. May's own account, his friend had been the diligent one of the pair, a bright compound of principle and spirit, and highly distinguished in all his studies, and Dr. May's model of perfection. Their paths had since lain far apart, and they had not seen each other since, twenty-six years ago, they had parted in London--the one to settle at his native town, while the other accepted a situation as travelling physician. On his return, he had almost sacrificed his life, by self-devoted attendance on a fever-stricken emigrant-ship. He had afterwards received an appointment in India, and there the correspondence had died away, and Dr. May had lost traces of him, only knowing that, in a visitation of cholera, he had again acted with the same carelessness of his own life, and a severe illness, which had broken up his health, had occasioned him to relinquish his post.

It now appeared that he had thought himself coming home ever since.

He had gone to recruit in the Himalayas, and had become engrossed in scientific observations on their altitudes, as well as investigations in natural history. Going to Calcutta, he had fallen in with a party about to explore the Asiatic islands and he had accompanied them, as well as going on an expedition into the interior of Australia. He had been employed in various sanitary arrangements there and in India, and had finally worked his way slowly home, overland, visiting Egypt and Palestine, and refreshing his memory with every Italian, German, or French Cathedral, or work of art, that had delighted him in early days.

He was a slight small man, much sunburned, nearly bald, and his hair snowy, but his eyes were beautiful, very dark, soft, and smiling, and yet their gaze peculiarly keen and steady, as if ready for any emergency, and his whole frame was full of alertness and vigour. His voice was clear and sweet, and his manner most refined and polished, indeed, his courtesy to Ethel, whenever there was a change of carriage, was so exemplary, that she understood it as the effect on a chivalrous mind, of living where a lady was a rare and precious article. It frightened Ethel a little at first, but, before the end of the journey, she had already begun to feel towards him like an old friend--one of those inheritances who are so much valued and loved, like a sort of uncles-in-friendship. She had an especial grateful honour for the delicate tact which asked no questions, as she saw his eye often falling anxiously on her father's left hand, where the wedding ring shone upon the little finger.

There was talk enough upon his travels, on public changes, and on old friends; but, after those first few words, home had never been mentioned.

When, at five o'clock, the engine blew its whistle, at the old familiar station, Dr. May had scarcely put his head out before Adams hastened up to him with a note.

"All well at home?"

"Yes, sir, Miss Margaret sent up the gig."

"I must go at once," said Dr May hastily--"the Larkins' child is worse.

Ethel, take care of him, and introduce him. Love to Margaret. I'll be at home before tea."

He was driven off at speed, and Ethel proposed to walk home. Dr Spencer gave her his arm, and was silent, but presently said, in a low, anxious voice, "My dear, you must forgive me, I have heard nothing for many years. Your mother--"

"It was an accident," said Ethel looking straight before her. "It was when papa's arm was hurt. The carriage was over-turned."

"And--" repeated Dr Spencer earnestly

"She was killed on the spot," said Ethel, speaking shortly, and abruptly. If she was to say it at all, she could not do so otherwise.

He was dreadfully shocked--she knew it by the shudder of his arm, and a tight suppressed groan. He did not speak, and Ethel, as if a relief from the silence must be made, said what was not very consoling, and equally blunt. "Margaret had some harm done to her spine--she cannot walk."

He did not seem to hear, but walked on, as in a dream, where Ethel guided him, and she would not interrupt him again.

They had just passed Mr Bramshaw's office, when a voice was heard behind, calling, "Miss Ethel! Miss Ethel!" and Edward Anderson, now articled to Mr. Bramshaw, burst out, pen in hand, and looking shabby and inky.

"Miss Ethel!" he said breathlessly, "I beg your pardon, but have you heard from Harry?"

"No!" said Ethel. "Have they had that paper at home?"

"Not that I know of," said Edward. "My mother wanted to send it, but I would not take it--not while Dr. May was away."

"Thank you--that was very kind of you."

"And oh! Miss Ethel, do you think it is true?"

"We hope not," said Ethel kindly--"we saw a Captain at Oxford who thought it not at all to be depended on."

"I am so glad," said Edward; and, shaking hands, he went back to his high stool, Ethel feeling that he deserved the pains that Norman had taken to spare and befriend him. She spoke to her companion in explanation. "We are very anxious for news of my next brother's ship, Alcestis, in the Pacific--"

"More!" exclaimed poor Dr. Spencer, almost overpowered; "Good Heavens! I thought May, at least, was happy!"

"He is not unhappy," said Ethel, not sorry that they had arrived at the back entrance of the shrubbery.

"How long ago was this?" said he, standing still, as soon as they had passed into the garden.

"Four years, next October. I assure you, his spirits are almost always good."

"When I was at Adelaide, little thinking!" he sighed, then recollecting himself. "Forgive me, I have given you pain."

"No," she said, "or rather, I gave you more."

"I knew her--" and there he broke off, paused for a minute, then collecting himself, seemed resolutely to turn away from the subject, and said, walking on, "This garden is not much altered."

At that moment, a little shrill voice broke out in remonstrance among the laurels--"But you know, Daisy, you are the captain of the forty thieves!"