“Heaven awards the vengeance due.”

COWPER.

The weary days had begun to lengthen before the door of the hall was flung open, and little Phil, forgetting his bow at the door, rushed in, “Here’s a big packet from foreign parts!  Harry had to pay ever so much for it.”

“I have wellnigh left off hoping,” sighed the poor mother.  “Tell me the worst at once.”

“No fear, my lady,” said her husband.  “Thank God!  ’Tis our son’s hand.”

There was the silence for a moment of intense relief, and then the little boy was called to cut the silk and break the seals.

Joy ineffable!  There were three letters—­for Master Philip Archfield, for Mistress Anne Jacobina Woodford, and for Sir Philip himself.  The old gentleman glanced over it, caught the words ‘better,’ and ‘coming home,’ then failed to read through tears of joy as before through tears of sorrow, and was fain to hand the sheet to his old friend to be read aloud, while little Philip, handling as a treasure the first letter he had ever received, though as yet he was unable to decipher it, stood between his grandfather’s knees listening as Dr. Woodford read—­

DEAR AND HONOURED SIR—­I must ask your pardon for leaving you without tidings so long, but while my recovery still hung in doubt I thought it would only distress you to hear of the fluctuations that I went through, and the pain to which the surgeons put me for a long time in vain.  Indeed frequently I had no power either to think or speak, until at last with much difficulty, and little knowledge or volition of my own, my inestimable friend Graham brought me to Vienna, where I have at length been relieved from my troublesome companion, and am enjoying the utmost care and kindness from my friend’s mother, a near kinswoman, as indeed he is himself, of the brave and lamented Viscount Dundee.  My wound is healing finally, as I hope, and though I have not yet left my bed, my friends assure me that I am on the way to full and complete recovery, for which I am more thankful to the Almighty than I could have been before I knew what suffering and illness meant.  As soon as I can ride again, which they tell me will be in a fortnight or three weeks, I mean to set forth on my way home.  I cannot describe to you how I am longing after the sight of you all, nor how home-sick I have become.  I never had time for it before, but I have lain for hours bringing all your faces before me, my father’s, and mother’s, my sister’s, and that of her whom I hope to call my own; and figuring to myself that of the little one.  I have thought much over my past life, and become sensible of much that was amiss, and while earnestly entreating your forgiveness, especially for having absented myself all these years, I hope to return so as to be more of a comfort than I was in the days of my rash and inconsiderate youth.  I am of course at present invalided, but I want to consult you, honoured sir, before deciding whether it be expedient for me to resign my commission.  How I thank and bless you for the permission you have given me, and the love you bear to my own heart’s joy, no words can tell.  It shall be the study of my life to be worthy of her and of you.—­ And so no more from your loving and dutiful son, CHARLES ARCHFIELD.