There was a final postscript—­

The surgeon thinks him better for having disburthened his mind.

“My child,” said Sir Philip, with a long sigh, looking up at Anne, who had gathered the boy into her arms, and was hiding her face against his little awe-struck head, “my child, have you read?”

“No,” faltered Anne.

“Read then.”  And as she would have taken it, he suddenly drew her into his embrace and kissed her as the eyes of both overflowed.  “My poor girl!” he said, “this is as hard to you as to us!  Oh, my brave boy!” and he let her lay her head on his shoulder and held her hand as they wept together, while little Phil stared for a moment or two at so strange a sight and then burst out with a great cry—­

“You shall not cry! you shall not! my papa is not dead!” and he stamped his little foot.  “No, he isn’t.  He will get well; the letter said so, and I will go and tell grandmamma.”

The need of stopping this roused them both; Sir Philip, heavily groaning, went away to break the tidings to his wife, and Anne went down on her knees on the hearth to caress the boy, and help him to understand his father’s state and realise the valorous deeds that would always be a crown to him, and which already made the little fellow’s eye flash and his fair head go higher.

By and by she was sent for to Lady Archfield’s room, and there she had again to share the grief and the fears and try to dwell on the glory and the hopes.  When in a calmer moment the parents interrogated her on what had passed with Charles, it was not in the spirit of doubt and censure, but rather as dwelling on all that was to be told of one whom alike they loved, and finally Sir Philip said, “I see, dear child, I would not believe how far it had gone before, though you tried to tell me.  Whatever betide, you have won a daughter’s place.”

It was true that naturally a far more distinguished match would have been sought for the heir, and he could hardly have carried out his purpose without more opposition than under their present feelings, his parents supposed themselves likely to make, but they really loved Anne enough to have yielded at last; and Lady Nutley, coming home with a fuller knowledge of her brother’s heart, prevented any reaction, and Anne was allowed full sympathies as a betrothed maiden, in the wearing anxiety that continued in the absence of all intelligence.  On the principle of doing everything to please him, she was even encouraged to write to Charles in the packet in which he was almost implored to recover, though all felt doubts whether he were alive even while the letters were in hand, and this doubt lasted long and long.  It was all very well to say that as long as the servant did not return his master must be safe—­perhaps himself on the way home; but the journey from Transylvania was so long, and there were so many difficulties in the way of an Englishman, that there was little security in this assurance.  And so the winter set in while the suspense lasted; and still Dr. Woodford spoke Charles’s name in the intercessions in the panelled household chapel, and his mother and Anne prayed together and separately, and his little son morning and evening entreated God to “Bless papa, and make him well, and bring him home.”